Confessions from a Professed N-B-

Man, life can get all up in your ass, baby you better work it out…
Never have more truer words been spoken from the genre of hip hop. Thank you DeLa Soul. Today has not been as productive as what I would have preferred. Of course I did the basics, I woke up, ate, checked for communiqué, applied for more jobs via the web, probably need to do more following up on some things. This week I had a pretty rough scare. The good doctor, Dr. Jean, gave me cause for alarm. The reason, well, allow me to back track for a second. In my marriage, there, I would have to say I was hesitant. I shied away from conflict. At this point of self-critique, I can freely admit to myself, I latently had some self-esteem issues. I don’t know why this is coming out so freely now but it is. I was so romanticized by the acceptance from my wife, that I slowly morphed into a person I now recognize as what I would consider my anti-self. I was a sacrosanct. I would go along with anything, for the sanctity of being in my marriage plus the added luxury of peace and quiet. Why: I think because I was in competition with a ghost, maybe a series of them. There was my living dad, my deceased grandfather and my deceased step-father. I wanted to demonstrate to all three, that I could be a loving husband and a dad with a presence. For me, to be happily married satisfied that need. That added to my list of anxieties: rejection, failure, inability to provide, fueled what in hindsight might have been a gas fire I couldn’t stop. I grandly bought so much into the concept of marriage, where I forgot, that I too, needed to be happy. There were many opportunities which presented themselves for me to vocalize my objections to certain decisions but instead I bought into the notion that a still tongue makes a happy life.

A large part of the issue for me centered around my returning to school full time. As I valued that, she and I think members of her family and mine too for that matter rejected the idea. What man is going to go back to school while his wife supports him? That was the white elephant in the room. As they offered their opinions, I began to view myself as a second-class citizen within the marriage. Because Jean was the “financial breadwinner” I felt a great deal of my opinions were valued at only ½ in relationship to her 1 and ½ vote in our marriage. I think negative self-talk also reinforced this image. In short, I bought into the idea of being a social eunuch. That’s how I saw myself. I lacked value. I felt I wasn’t worthy of being loved because I wasn’t the “bread winner.” I wasn’t the provider. Consequently, that made me more vulnerable to emotional abuse. Oh I don’t think it was intentional, but looking back at the whole thing, I was being punished and didn’t know it. This is the sad thing about the duality of being African-American and male in the middle class society. Returning back to the question of financial stability, in our culture we (black folk) equate one’s sense of socially constructed manliness to ones means to economically provide. The social cues are there. We buy into them every day. The materialism, the keeping up with the Jones’s. If our friends had a house, we had to have a house. If our friends were in a certain daycare, we had to be in a daycare that was comparable. If our friends were going on a cruise, we had to go the Europe. It was like a grown up game of follow the leader and I felt penalized because my life for the next five to eight years was to be a Ph.D. student, not Cliff Huxtable. But I felt forced into that modality of thinking because I wanted to keep my wife happy. We played the game but the roles were reversed. I didn’t have the full time 9 to 5, but she did. She made more money than I did. Put simply, I was not the man in my marriage. This was never more thunderous when her brother called to “put me in check.” I was branded irresponsible, lazy, lacked motivation, you name it; I wore the brand.
My aunts even reminded me of this when we were pregnant. You cannot go back to school. If you go back to school your wife is going to leave you. The messages were so threatening, that I had to put certain members of my family on mute. I just couldn’t take it.

I easily remember the time I had a severe nervous breakdown in the fall of 2003. It was one of my worst panic attacks ever. My immediate 360 degrees personified a paralytic storm of emotional debilitation, thus forcing me to take a medical leave of absence. Basically, my manager, who was as racially sensitive as Steve Urkle was socially graceful, reached me at a point in my life when I finally decided, enough was enough regarding her white superiority-complex. The bullshit had to cease and desist, and my early to mid 30s would initiate my new state of racial consciousness. Before you I present the back-story. Our professional relationship was tumultuous, and that was on a good day. I’ve never been one to back away from a social stand. In 1997, I came to the aid of eight African American boys who decided getting admitted to one of the top HBCUs in North Carolina on free rides mind you, thrust them into manhood, ergo placing them into a celebratory mood and a state of public drunkenness. Loveable jackasses they were, they brought 40 ounce malt liquor into their residential halls which of course was state run. I and other black people on the campus saw the writing on the wall. It was so clear Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles could see it. These boys, loveable jackasses they were, who were at the flagship high school in North Carolina, were looking down the barrel of expulsion. Now, the administration was not stupid. In fact beyond the handwriting on the wall, they saw the newspaper headlines. Eight African American Boys Expelled. No, this would not be a good admissions tool. Instead, the administration targeted two. When I saw how one boy who really didn’t have a strong African American male role model come to is aid, guess who did. After a month of going to meetings with his mother, his lawyer, the court you name it, he and his co-conspirator were able to stay in school. Now, its not everyday that black people step to white folk and live to tell the tale. Hence, a new white female supervisor who pretty much was told, we (the administration) have got a price on that niggers head became my bounty hunter. Get that nigger dead or alive. We prefer he be dead.

Round One: Fall of 1997, out of nowhere, I am getting written warning after written warning. I had no back up to help me do my job. Round Two: Spring 1998, I am suspended for two weeks (an attempt without pay). Learning that my rights of due process had been grossly violated, I was still suspended, but my pay was re-instated. Round Three: Fall 1998, I experience my first job related panic attack. I resign, only to rescind the resignation 24 hours later. I also realize I do have a voice and discover the EEOC and file complaints. Round Four: Fall 1999, after getting another written warning, and learning that my supervisor was attempting to fire me, I learned later that because some previous written warnings had expired, I just had to get another written warning. Round Five: Fall 2000, I filed another complaint with EEOC about what I interpreted as intentional attempts to create a hostile work environment. Its here where I am called into a meeting with the president of the school to come up with a way to peaceably get me to leave. By this time, I’ve learned that when an EEOC complaint is filed, it puts the breaks temporarily on any human resources process because the federal government is now involved. Round Six: Spring 2001, the most climatic battle between my supervisor and myself takes place. By this time, I am accused of tampering with a computer system as well as poor job performance. Again, she was trying to force me out, I wasn’t trying to go. In the Spring of 2003, I am admitted to Howard University and my boss is giddy. He’s going to leave and go to school at the end of the 03 school year. After careful consideration I decided no; I needed one more year of savings. On top of that, Jean was not happy with me relocating without her, right after we got engaged, so I followed my heart and my wallet. Round Seven: As I made the decision to stay at my job for one more year, my manager, suddenly found problems with my job performance. One day, I was called into a meeting behind closed doors she basically called me Nigger without saying the word. Defiantly pointing her finger at me, raising her voice, I felt was threatening let alone condescending. Me, attempting to assert my rights as a human being, let alone my feelings of being racially disrespected, I lodged yet another complaint against her behavior. What I failed to learn, after all these bouts, was that I was in violation of certain social contracts.

Breach of social contract one: you as the employee are never, ever, to question the actions or motivations of your direct superior.
Breach of social contract two: as a black man employed in North Carolina State Government, regardless of your training and education, you are still relegated to a stigmatic classed existence. You are (at least in 2003) forbidden, to assert your state of being, be creative, take initiative and in general, be considered equal to your white folk counterpart. I discovered this after learning of a study where the state even admitted; we have done black men wrong in state government.

After bringing this matter to the attention of a white supervisor, a white human resources director, a white administrator, and of course, a white executive director, I was viewed as the Negro Problem of 2003. Sure enough, after I vocalized what I now knew was my racialized experience, I found myself in the midst of another, in now what I considered an absurd list of job disputes with my Lilliputian tyrannical, Napoleonic, cookie making desperate housewife boss. After numerous attempts to discharge me for cause, I had been brought into a pre-disciplinary dismissal meeting for of all things, a damned walkie talkie. Trying to be professional about this trumped up discharge, she gives me a notice, Friday evening, telling me that Monday morning, I am to come to a pre-termination meeting. We’ll disregard the fact that I had been elected to the post of Staff Council President, (the youngest one). At the time, I’m calm. I’m cool like Shaft. I ask, “Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Gleefully she said yes this is what I want to do. So, in my mind I am getting ready for another installment of “The Terminator.” At Jeans apartment, as I am preparing for my mounting defense, I suddenly go numb. I can’t speak for an hour. My body is stiff. OK, not only can I not speak, I am now paralytic. On the next Monday, the doctor tells me that I have had a panic attack, and what I need is some time for lack of a better term, to reboot myself. So after making amends with my psychologist of the moment, I elect to take what is called emergency family medical leave. Its here where I am diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder. So for the next three months I am out of work, trying to figure out what has happened to me. Now here is where the line starts to become a circle. Being one who believes in total disclosure, when the, to-be, in laws come to visit, I feel the need to be up front with them. I tell them everything that’s happened. Her father is pretty much from the old school saying in so many words, “Sometimes when you are working for someone, you’ve got to take what the boss gives you, even if it is crap.” My family wasn’t much better. One of my aunts was of the opinion, “You know you know how to work with that white woman. Just keep your mouth shut and do your job.” So in short, I felt as though I was in the middle of a conundrum. Yes I have a job, but am I predestined to a life of racialized second-class citizenship, in order to get a pay-check? Apparently, I am. So everything I was taught about being a man, self advocating, being racially conscious, being the man who would risk his neck for his brother man, going to the million man march to say I am my brother’s keeper, is only to be practiced during Black History Month and every first Sunday. My racial and gendered state of efficacy is now in a crisis of conscious. Wonderful. Those who were of the generation of the civil rights movement were now hypocrites. In the words of Prince, I wanted to smack somebody because I felt as though the people I sought out for guidance and inspiration were cowards. Oh no. Where I worked, regardless of my academic achievements, regardless of what I had done over the past 8 years there, I’m was supposed to know my role and shut my damn mouth. In other words, roll over and play the role of nigger/bitch and I regain my masculinity. Be all you can be, be the nigger-bitch, and proudly, be the best damned nigger-bitch you can be. Yep that’s me, your friendly neighborhood, nigger-bitch. Capitulate, sell-out, and then you will walk like a man my son. In the words of one of my deceased associates, I’d rather lick my own vomit. To me, to capitulate socially at that level, in short is congruent to self emasculation. That, I could not and will not do. But in the eyes of the traditionalist, their view distinctively represents an oppositional gaze.

I could hear the commentary from the sidelines. He’s going to lean on this woman for life. He’s going to loose his damn job and become financially dependent on his new fiancée. Well, by 2004, I was married; I left my job on my terms and went back to school. The wife in essence was making the bulk of the money but in all fairness, I took my retirement from the state and subsidized a great portion of my first year of graduate study. Here is where the arc becomes 3/4s of a circle. Regardless of the fact that I was paying for my education and not asking my wife really for anything except a ride to and from the airport; I paid my portion of the rent, I paid my share of the utilities. That said, as I was doing all of that, I still felt afraid to vocalize my opinions. I would allow myself, to deny myself. I represented a work in progress, not instant husband, just add water. Its interesting how that level of corrosive thinking, distorts your self image. You see, because I was not viewed, even through my own eyes, as a providing partner, I resigned myself to a second class status in my marriage. One could say there was a genderfuck within our home. Through the eyes of patriarchal hegemonic constructs of the American marriage structure, she, culturally and symbolically was wearing the pants in the family because she culturally personified what we in our society view as what a man is suppose to do. She was making the money with her Ph.D. where as I, was just the Ph.D. student; what was I contributing to the marriage? That type of negative self-defeatist that I allowed myself to buy into, made me silent. I was afraid. I was afraid to assert myself to my wife, my mother, her father and her brother and even her friends. I was afraid to lead. I think also what needs to be mentioned is that it takes two for the process of domination to be complete and fittingly my circle comes full. Domination is a two-person process. Now I am not saying Jean was a bitch. What I am saying is that she was not cognizant. Was that her fault? Not at all, I take the blame for that. I take the blame for that because I bought into a system that perpetuates the myth and lie combined. One has to enable domination and one has to assume the role of the dominator. Now over the course of time, anyone is capable of learning from trial and error. I sincerely believed that Jean did begin to learn from her experiences and thus took control to a certain extent from me. Every person has a price, mine was peace and quiet. I wanted a tranquil home. That said, there is another word that comes from tranquil, tranquilize. How do you have a tranquilizing home without crossing the line to being anesthetized? I was afraid of her throwing fits, withholding affection, going into a funk. These things were bargaining chips or points of currency if you will which had me in check. Whatever you want baby you got it. I’ll do it. Because again you see I wasn’t bringing home the bread so I didn’t have much say so over what went on in my home. So the cycle of domination was pretty solid. Even when I was making decent coin, it was only ½ of what she was making and guess what, I still bought into it. And guess what, she left anyway. The good thing about this, and if you go through this yourself, all ways look for the good, even in the most horrid of places, going through my deepest fear regarding my marriage, I haven’t done anything destructive to myself, nor to anyone else. Oh I’ve been depressed, but dysfunctional and depressed aren’t in the same category. When this is all done, and I recognize I still have a long way to go, I can say with my head held high, I am a man and I am setting a damn good model for our son. I may not always win, but even in our defeats and losses, how we react, absorb and learn from the lows, without question is a testament to our real character. I was a man in tact when I came into my marriage and damn it, I am going to be a man, a bigger man as I exit this marriage. I know I know how to love and I am worthy of someone to share that with. Do I have everything together today, no.. Will I have everything together tomorrow? Probably not, but what’s most important, and I hope you take this with you as you read this, I am showing up ready for practice, getting ready to play. If you can do even that, just by showing up, think about what you can do, when you learn the rules of the game and actually play it. Not only will you be a player, but eventually, you will be an owner of your own team, the team called yourself.

Whiteness from the other side: Wal-Mart

I experience yet again another random act of kindness from white people, where I would have never thought possible. Remember, white people and white folks are two different organisms. As opposed to elaborating on my definitions, I will share the detail of two different but still related experiences.

My day at Wal-Mart.
Me and Red Chief were doing some Friday evening shopping at the Wal-Mart. We had to get some basics and some restocking items for the Penthouse. Well as I have said before, money and I these days are not on the best of speaking terms. I talk, rarely does it listen. But I am happy to say that we are in negotiations so that our communications will be much better in the near future. Being a single parent will force you to have those conversations with Mr. Franklin, Mr. Lincoln, Mr. Washington, etc. As we get to the check out counter, I think I have enough money to cover my purchases. Damn, $5.00 over. OK, I say to myself, embarrassed, yes but its not the end of the world. At the check out counter I am forced to perform an immediate needs assessment of what I want vs what we need. So lets go over the list. whole wheat bread, we need, tooth brush and tooth paste, we need, juices, we need, can opener, we need, chicken, we need, mixing bowl we need. Brownies, we need? Olive oil, we need? Cutting knives, we need? Trash bags, we need? Mixing spoons, we need? Now as I am saying this to myself, the elderly woman, who was running the cash register at the Wal-Mart was looking at the bill. And simply put I was not even going to act like I had forgotten any extra money. $30.00 is what I was going to spend, period. She, as humbly as she could, kindly said to me, your knives are four dollars. If you skip that, that should then bring you down to about $30.50. Ok so the cutting knives had to go. But, as I was still going deeper in the pockets, I was still coming up with lint. This indicates yet another item would remain in the custody of Wal-Mart. “Do you need the wings,” she asked. I shook my head yes because that was going to be our dinner. “What about the olive oil? “ This was $5.00 and I knew where I could get it cheaper for three. Hence, their olive oil had to go back. But then we came across another conundrum, the Zertyc. That was a necessity because both Red Chief and I both have bad sinuses at this time of year, so yep, we need it. Ok that put me back at 30.50. Taking the mixing spoons out, got me down to 28.10. I didn’t feel ashamed; in fact I felt this was some good customer service. If forced me to think again about establishing a harmonious relationship with my money as opposed to a chaotic one. I took out another $15.00 and bought gas and then headed off to the food lion to buy the last items needed for snacks and cooking. The Olive oil was 3.04 and the PBJ for the sandwiches were 1.97. Damn, I was still under regarding the money, but again the manager of the day who had been so enamored with Red-Chief, asked was he being a good helper? He was shocked but happily said yes. Looking at the register, again I was thinking to myself, hell, not again. However, the manager kindly said, don’t worry about it, I’ve got you, So even though I was literally a dollar short, I wasn’t a day late for a blessing. She covered the difference with her discount. I was floored. I had never experienced this much kindness from white people in one day since my trip to London. I got the Obama speak “Twofor” two good deeds by white people in one day. I think the denominator here is that these were working class white people who day to day, try their hardest to make ends meet like most of us. In contrast, when Red Chief and I inquired about how do we get involved in the kickball league in Briar Creek, (mind you, this was from one of the players and not an administrator of the league) I felt as though my inquiring about entering the league would be a turn off. I think I could see a prejudicial stereotype in his mind. Again this is pure conjecture and speculation, but I felt his mind and his body language said, “Shit, can’t we have anything to ourselves? If you come in the league and play, then we have to up our game 10%...” In short, I felt as though I was the victim of reverse athletic discrimination. See that’s why I like weight training and lifting. I have a deceptive build. When folks see me coming, I’m easily dismissed. But when I then start deadlifting sets of 315lbs as a warm up (I call this checking in) white folks become intimidated. Black folk on the other hand are like, “that’s right, you represent!” Frankly I find it annoying by both parties because there is this false ideology being generated by both sets of folks. I just like lifting and running. And if I do say so myself, I do like the results in the mirror.

But back to the issue at hand, we all have been kicked in the ass and in the family jewels pretty damn hard by the wasteful spending of governments and oligopolies. When I saw a family of white folk being taken away in cuffs for shoplifting at the Wal-Mart, I was like my God, this crazy ass economy has simply driven folks to edges of ignorant stupid ass conduct. I think I made a small twitter post about; the Beverly Hills actually let me correct that for geographical sake, The Briar Creek Hillbillies got busted for stealing a microwave box full of DVDs. It was an ugly site to see. Five cop cars, two hillbillies per car it was just weird but, that’s also a reflection of the state of the economy in which we reside. Maybe I might write a letter to the president, the governor of my state and the mayor of my city; it’s sad that I have to celebrate buying a .97 can opener. Its sad that we have a society that regulates “panhandling.” For me, race is a component of economics, but more so, the economic system in this country represents more of an caste system where the symbolic reminders are constant.

Ugly and then DAMN Ugly

Its late. I'm up, part due to the fact that I may have had a little too much prune juice. If you don’t know what that’s like, try it. I promise you, it will be an unforgettable experience. Channel surfing, I come across Geraldo at Large on Fox and I see something that is just, plain, startling. There is this video which is just too shocking to believe. At first I thought it was just two kids fighting in school. But why would that make Geraldo at Large at 1:30AM. Then I see the reporter cut to a shot of this young brother anchored with a white lawyer to the left and a white lawyer to the right. The reporter is saying something to the effect that he is the victim in the video. ?Victim? to me it just looked like a regular street fight. Thug vs thug. Oh, no, the bomb shell hits. The one who is just clocking this kid is a teacher. This is not like the thuggish hulking male gym teacher we all have seen at one time or another; but a 120 pound light weight, 40 year old female, who looked like she was having a DMX moment.


You know the verse, Yall gone make me loose my mind, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me go all out, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me act a fool, up in here, up in here, Yall gone make me loose my cool, up in here, up in here. Even worse, this is black on black crime. Yes. I said it, the teacher is black. If ever, there was a clear cut way, to successfully terminate your teaching career, this is it! This reminds me of the asswhipping I got from my mom, the Queen Mother. Its hard not to look at that as a parent, let alone, as an educator, and not react. Please allow me to put this in writing. I think my co-parent and I are on the same page when it comes to matters of our child. If any teacher puts their hands on RedChief, she will put her hands on them. If anybody else puts their hands on RedChief, in a way that is not life preserving, I will just simply release the co-parent on them. That having been said, if I have to get involved in it, let there be no mistake, there will be some sad singing and flower bringing. Admittedly, I am extremely prejudice in matters of our son. I'd rather be judged by 12, than have my son carried by six. Now all that said, I also feel the need to add, the little-big man in this video did in fact need to be disciplined. Listening to the raw tape, it appears as though our little angel did cross the line to the point where his wings needed to be clipped. You don't pick on mentally challenged people. Its obvious to me, at least that is what turned this frail looking teacher into the bionic, she-hulk . I mean she ripped the desk out the floor, threw it in the corner, then got low and went to boxing on this kid. The type of asswhipping delivered here I dare say was a classic 1982 asswhipping. She had on Vans sneakers, blue jeans I mean she was dressed to deliver a beat down in a pizza box to your front door. Its so ugly you have to laugh at it to some degree because its just so ridiculous. Many teachers I am sure have thought about going over the line. Hell, I've destroyed students cell phones if they didn't get the message when I took their call in class. I've closed and locked the door on students who were habitually late for my classes. Hell, I've shredded student's 15 page papers in front of them when they tried to give them to me late. I admit it, I'm probably like the late Buford Pusser when it comes to teaching. My class, my time. Do not waste my time. Do not try to clown me on my time, because in the end, I'm giving the grade and i'm getting my check at the end of the month! In the words of one of my frat brothers, there is no way, NO WAY, a child will keep me from my dollars. Now granted my stunts i did with grown ass college students who for the most part know the code of the streets. For the uninitiated, that means this: don't start with me, and I won't start with you. Even if you do start with me, I'm going to still be professional. I'm professional not just for the knowledge, skills, and abilities I bring to the table, but also for my ability to remain calm under pressure. This means there will not be fights breaking out in my classroom. This means as the teacher, my knowledge of the content shuts you down in the event, you the student choose to act up. This means, I have speed dial to security and the local PD on my phone and will evacuate the room to have said disruptive student removed. Now that said, I hope to God this teacher learns from her mistakes. I hope she is given an opportunity to earn a chance at redemption. But right now there is the bad, the ugly and this, the damn ugly.

Making Black History Everyday

Essentalizing Black Masculinity runs a slippery slope. Often times we have rather dangerous tendency to compare ourselves to a hegemonic ideal. By that, we tend to subscribe our identity to rather co-op our identity to a set of constructs based on the foundation of exclusion. Now what does all that mean? In short, because we have been blinded, and in some cases operate as willing accomplices to the isims of capitalism, sexism, self based racism and of course materialism. Because of these isims capitalism is a rather nasty notorious game we are forced to play. How does this all work into the hegemonic construct? Hegemonics, a term from Antonio Gramschi, is based partially in the thesis of Dos Kaptal by Marx. Where as Marx looks solely at economics being used at the epicenter of class struggle, Gramsci explores the notion of culture and those who control culture very much on the schematic of the Bougoie and the Proletariat. That being the case, if we look at culture and how our this post modern American culture functions on the ideology of materialism, well, unfortunately we have become to accept the myth as now fact. The more stuff you have, the money you have, the more powerful you are perceived to be.

That said, I can speak on this only because I, with all due deference, represent a part of the talented 10^th who have been afforded the time, the life chances and other opportunities to wrestle with these power dynamics and pontificate upon them on demand or at will. The converse of this goes back to my power thesis. Power in this country is personified by money and material items part due social systemic reinforcement; the media, the court system; the social systems. Sadly, we as Black folk are not critical of these messages we receive and thus we easily accept it. Black men are not supposed to show emotion, Black Men are to act as patriarchs, we’re suppose to have this cool pose that Majors and Bilson talk about. The reality is that we are supposed to be Teflon. Its not possible but we try to do it. This in turn leads to illness and premature death by black men at the hands of other black men, white men, and even black women.

Everyday I don’t flash, loose my cool, loose my self respect, stay out of jail, get closer to that Ph.D.—believe it or not, that’s how I make Black History everyday.

Paid In Full--The Payroll at the HBCU

I now understand the inside joke. Man, do I ever understand the inside joke... Starting to now realized that I actually may complete this Ph.D. project, I now have come to terms with why the "Intellectual Noir" refuse to work at the HBCU. I thought I only had issues with White Folks but when it really gets down to the nitty gritty, the manifestations of White Folks can easily bleed into the hearts and minds of the disillusioned HNICs at the HBCUs. For those in need of translation, HNIC means Head Negros In Charge. Two words--Pay Check!!!!!-- When this episode happened-- well lets not call it an episode lets call it what it really is--yet still keep it clean-- A Complete Overt Act of Jackassary- to my wife, I laughed. Part due to the fact that I saw my wife go through a change of sorts. For two days straight, I heard the words, Pay Check. Ironically there was this stupid movie out there with the same title, Pay Check starring Ben Affleck. According to Dr. Wife, for her to obtain a quasi healthy response, she had to evoke the politics of rapper, DMX, "Yall gona make me loose my mind, up in here-- up in here." Here exact words, in the payroll office were, I cannot work under these conditions. Being as supportive as I could, I tried to make the best of a bad situation by being there, consoling her but needless to say, consolation has limited currency in the grocery store check-out line. When I got my first gig as an adjunct, again at an unnamed HBCU, I was told on the day when I expected to be paid that, adjuncts were paid only twice during the semester, October and December. What was even worse was that I was told, after I made an emergency request for a pay advance that the emergency funds would come from the traveling monies linked to the football team. This was supposed to be the guilt factor at work. Shaking my head and saying-- this is an anomaly, it cannot be the rule, I took my issues of the disparate conditions of the HBCU to members of "Intellectual Noir." Because I am a Marxist at heart at least, Democratic Marxist to be more specific, I posed the question of intellectual partnership with those behind the ivy leagues and the HBCU. The reactions were startling. Cornel West responded with the matter of course load volume. "You don't want to see cornel west @ 4:00 on Friday afternoon after three classes." He added that as he is a strong proponent for social justice, he strongly doubts if officials at an HBCU would want to hear that he is in jail for exercising civil disobedience as opposed to teaching his classes. Lastly, he did mention the issue of student quality. If he asked students to read 200 pages by the next class meeting, they would read possibly 500. I didn't want to believe it. That said, I have to reflect back on comments made by Michael Eric Dyson, when he said, I can't work for the HBCU simply because they pay the "Negro Rate."--- Sad but true. After teaching a session of summer school and being paid on the 12 month calendar, life is like a damn circle. I am starring in the sequel to Pay Check called Pay Check II. There is not catchy subtitle just the continuing saga of an HBCU employee attempting to be paid what was promised. GRIPE ALERT:!!!-- This is where I start bitching.. If you don't want to hear the griping-- please stop now... To me this is damn stupid but it completely adds justification to the statements mentioned by Dyson and West. To me there is not wonder why talent, not saying that I am an independent one man think tank, can't stay at the HBCU. Unfortunately, here is where our students really loose. Granted our students, (this is regardless of color but more economic standing) are eager-- damn it they have a thirst to learn. They need not only to be spiritually fed but academically and intellectually nourished. It is hard to do that when the people who are in charge isolate themselves from the realities of their workforce-- us of the professorial proletariat. When I think about the economic disparately and the negligent resource inequality-- I am beginning to question the realities gained by Brown Vs. Board. Then of course there is this human factor. Like Prince said in Pop Life, Everybody Needs a Thrill, Pop Life, We all have a space to fill, Pop Life, Everybody wants to be on top.. When we seriously think about it, that song by itself is a somber metaphorical discourse on capitalism within our country, let alone a statement of the working conditions many of us experience. The politics of the HBCU-- in a post modernistic period boils down to the preverbal crabs in the bucket. No more are we (academics and students alike) concerned with the transformative component of what the university symbolically represents. Many of us--Gen X and Gen Y view the university through the lens of quid quo pro-- this for that. Meaning, I did my time, I paid my money, so I get my degree and I am supposed to have a place in the world where I make 40K easy. Sad but it took me 9 years of hell to realize that anybody can have a job, but true living comes from embracing what you love-- in my case, it’s a relationship with the Creator, My Family, and of course Media and its discursive effects. I am motivated by social justice, change, and advocacy which is why part of me feels that the HBCU still has a purpose but is in a critical state of disrepair. Right now, the HBCU is on life support and even rats know when to leave a sinking ship. I really can understand the laments of West and Dyson and even others. Its difficult to intellectualize when you have to wonder about is my university fiscally sound or who has gotten an acute case of the ass to screw with payroll. ---- NOTE Griping is now over-- It was funny when Dr. Wife saw me attempting calm myself down. We were going to see two movies this weekend, The Incredible Hulk and Wanted. Da Wife noticed my breathing pattern and was astonished that I knew how to breath palates' style. "Have you ever taken palates? I mean you are doing so well." My response,

"Baby, upper middle class white folks call it palates. I'm just trying hard not to assault anybody that's all."

"How about I treat you to a movie, lets go see Wanted."

"Does it have anything to do with revenge?"

"I think so."

"That's out."

"What about the incredible hulk?"

"Isn't that the one where Dr. Banner needs anger management?"

"I wouldn't put it like that but yeah."

"Cancel that one too-- I might be driving a white ford bronco if I see that one."

Strangely, after taking some calm down medicine I went to see that one. And funny as it may seem, I saw myself in the movie. Not the monster or the Hulk but as Dr. Banner who was meditating and to the side had some text saying number of days since last incident--incident meaning the hulk out. I think I am at 2 days since last incident.

Sagging-- Pants or Empathy

Greetings Brothers:
At the risk of playing the devil's advocate (especially when he/she doesn't need one) I think to some degree we are looking at this issue through a somewhat limited lens. We really can't castigate our brothers without trying to hear our brothers, even when they drown us out. All of us on this list serve come from some degree of privilege or bask in it. When I walk from the metro to my class @ Howard (as a student) or drive through the ghetto to get to Shaw (as a lowly adjunct) I see folk that privilege and social systems expeditiously forgot. I mean let us think about it for second, we don't come from decedents of immigrants but more so we have a legacy of captivity. We have a bill of rights that's founded on competition and social Darwinism. "Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," fails to include blue cross, 40 acres and a mule, and a buffet for all the chitterlings you can eat. I do recognize and appreciate the mantra of self responsibility. That said, I also recognize the concept of "life choices."
These life choices start in the womb before we get here. Only fate and God (or higher power if you are atheist) know what will happen to you the moment you are born. If given a choice many folk who look like thug life incorporated would rather co-op at Microsoft with some Google stock in their back pocket. It just so happens that we are in such a media saturated dome that Viacom, Motorola, GE, Sony and Disney have taken the place of Mom, Dad, Preacher and Teacher. Though I disagree philosophically on some portions of the Dubosian 10th, I still recognize my place and obligation within that 10%. Being as humble as I can while being blunt, I don't like seeing the practice (pants sagging) anymore than anybody else, but is anybody willing chip in to buy our brothers a suit, teach them how to code switch, or the importance of being earnest while not faking the funk and selling out. It's not pants sagging we have to look at, but the neighborhood/village that "signs off" on that practice. By examination, I'm not speaking on judgment per say, but instead becoming their advocate for responsible subsidized living, quality health care, and living wages that support quality child care that offers character development. All of us are articulate enough to where we can either be the voice for the socially mute or better yet teach our bothers and sisters the martial art of verbal and non verbal discourse.
Me personally, in my class at Shaw, I have instituted a dress policy that actually counts toward their grade.
I'm all for self expression, especially in hip hop, being that's my culture.
As I and hip hop culture mature, my role as an "older head" is to lead by example and coach with care.. And at the risk of really checking myself and others on the list serve, there was one time when each of us wore something or did something that really made our elders think we had lost our minds..
Need I not mention da spike lee joint school daze which inspired the classes of 1987--1989 to wear spandex shorts and tee shirts to classes along with $109.00 pair of Jordan's.... I guess I'll be booted from the conversation but I just couldn't let the conversation end without at least bringing up the oppositional POVs...

Bro. Russell Robinson
Ph.D. Student Mass Communications and Media Studies Howard University

God Help the Black Scholar with a Looking Glass

For a period of time now I have felt that there exists a serious conflict of interest in relationship to the self dispersal of the "black intellect" within the confines of Euro white ivory towers.

It's hard to extend upon what has already been offered thus far regarding data; that said, I believe it is equally important that we touch on an another aspect that we have overlooked, the HBCU structures and their intended purposes. At the risk of being redundant, I am sure we have entertained these topics at some time or another but for contextual purposes, it is worth mentioning again..

The TWI has a mission strongly reflects a research tone where as the HBCUs embody a liberal arts foundation.. These divergent missions represent perpendicular ideologies. Many big 10 TWI's hold to the iron clad rule of publish or perish-- no publish, no tenure which in essence means no job security. At the other end of the spectrum, the modalities of the HBCUs stipulate that faculty come in, teach, serve on committees, not rock the boat, equating to a possibility (in some circumstances bleak possibility) of tenure. Cobb was 100% accurate when he eluded to the fact the Princetons, the Havards and other ivys are resource heavy which in turn, thus enabling them to create these AA studies “dream teams.” Another individual stated that Hampton and Howard work to cultivate future generations of scholars prepared and willing to pick up the African American scholarship where the current generation leaves off. That post equally has validity/salience --in it short makes sense..

That said, I posed this question to Dyson and West and their reactions as they were different, shared similarities. Having worked and still working at an HBCU I can easily understand their reasoning-- Dyson said, "I can't work for the Negro rate." West stated, "I was in jail this weekend protesting the G8 summit (I think that's what it was). (paraphrasing here) I don't think an HBCU will understand why Professor West was in jail." I am torn because as a supporter, I think I should caveat that, as a progressive supportive of HBCUs, I think the mission resonates for generations to come, as long as white privilege and racism exists. HBCUs have a place in our society… Lets face it, many HBCUs overwork and underpay their chief a large segment of their analytical bank, their faculty. Furthermore, I the philosophical dynamics and acrobatics held by many of these black scholars behind the ivory tower simply is not appreciated within the halls of the current of the HBCU structure. Building upon what T said earlier, many of these thinkers are not only thinking out of the box; they are restructuring the box into a sphere, a public sphere of epistemological discourse.

Egyptology-- as intriguing as it sounds would not have the same home at Shaw University as it would at Georgetown... Hegemonic Masculinity and its Oppositional Masculinities would not survive at NCCU or NCATSU for the simple fact of its content... (we really don't talk of homosexuals within our conversations unless we negate them--something which philosophically I think we need to change).. But even in and of that-- some of us on this list serve are products of that thinking...the HBCU mentality...

Furthermore, I think the conversation in African American Studies is on the verge of a major paradigm shift and or purging... The main focus in academe is on the topic of globalization....Globalization has one main isim and I have said it before-- capitalism.. Capitalism drives a whole host of other isims as I have said before-- Globalization centers primarily on the issue of domination vis-à-vis economic control.. When you have a small group of folk who look like each other, think like each other and others factoids, you have cultural imperialism which in turn "whitewashes" marginalized societies. Dyson, West, Rose, and hooks, and Baker among others are bringing this issue to the forefront. Talks about globalization don't take place at the HBCU-- it almost plays into the muted group theory.. that deals with male privilege and language -- however, I think could be extended white privilege and the control of the epistemological discourse... Men [Dominant society] create the words and meaning for the culture, allowing expression of their ideas. Women [Marginalized society], on the other hand, are left out of this meaning creation and left without a means to express that which is unique to them. That leaves women [Marginalized society] as a muted group.

This in turn could contribute to the spiral of silence that takes place at the HBCU where the still tongue makes a happy life.. There are too many games and inbreeding that takes place at the HBCU which makes the current design desperately in need of retooling and psychiatric evaluation.. Instead of lauding the employee or professor who actively engages in research and critical scholarship, the internal structures of these institutions work to destroy self esteem/efficacy... This can easily be attributed (I think) to a base of insecurity linked to neo-power. See at these institutions of epistemological plantations, there is a façade or false promise of scholarship. Instead there is this grandiose game of "king of the mountain"

or as we know "crabs in the bucket" where everybody strives to be on top by any means necessary. God help the black scholar who attempts to hold a mirrior up to these institutions for he or she will be drummed into academic exile. This is why I have serious contention with the Dysons, Wests, hooks et al. As Dyson pointed out, Martin Luther King Jr. put his body on the line for civil rights and we elegize him. The parallel may be a little off, but the concept remains the same...These folks who have liberated themselves academically, who have insulated themselves in their respective pocketbooks, will not come to the aid of the field Negroes who still sweat blood and tears at the epistemological sweat factories in the dirty south. To me, that represents a conflict..

To make matters worse, West alluded that blacks at the HBCUs could not match the caliber of his white and black students at Princeton-- real or imaginary, simply by making that statement alienates him folk who really need his sprit, his guidance, his presence as opposed to being his financial base....

So in closing-- (sorry to be so long winded) AA studies at the Ivy TWIs I am not too worried about as I am sure as soon as the need dries up, so too will the need for these programs.... What needs to take place a thrusting of the AA studies program into the global dialogue.. Hopefully, the HBCUs will enter a paradigm shift of their own to spear head this initiative....

The Rhyme of Calypso's Son

I really have to stop and think. What happened to me makes me sad, which is followed by crying, followed by anger and then followed by the need to get even. I don't like that. I don't like how I feel. How do I feel after this episode or revisiting this episode in my life. To know that I am now permantly scarred with that event… Working with her and under those conditions-- abusive, painful, and just so self demeaning. It has been two years now since I have left NCSSM. I should be happy working on my Ph.D. with my son on the way in less than a few months and a wife who loves me 75% of the time-- well she loves me but can't stand my finicial philisophy. But I am not happy when I think about my NCSSM case. I am not happy about the fact that I went through hell, I mean psychological trauma that the state of North Carolina doesn't recognize. I still have nightmares sometimes about this and it just sickens me. The fact that someone invaded my mind, my peace of mind and no one even recognized my torture. It was like I was raped, but it wasn't a rape that was sexual but psychological.. Now how does one rape an individual psychologically? That's a pretty damn good question. My experinece I think supplys the pretty damn good answer. I like to think of it as my baptisim by fire. I think I would have prefered to have gotten shot in the face some days because there would at least be some type of physical reminder of what happened to me. In the world in which we live in, the physical scars will at least heal with time, physical intervnetion, and with the aid of a few dollars, a new face, a new extermity, a new body part can be created. But the psyche is vastly different. You just can't go out and buy a new set of expeiences, a new psychological profile a new idendity -- at least on the white market anyway. But being Calypso's son somedays, I have to seek new, inovative and cereative ways to survive in the face of adversity. Inspite of my best attemtps, those scars will never go away. No amount of psycotherapy will ever make me for get what happened ot me and in hindsight, maybe I am not meant to forget them. Maybe what happened to me was supposed to happen to me. Menatally tourture and all. Maybe I was suppose to be the one who brings this matter to the forefront for discussion.. Maybe I was meant to tell this tale of woe very much like the tale of albatross in Rhyme of the Anchient Mariner so in hopes those who do face instances of what happen to me, they will be better perpared not have it happem to them. Evidently, this appears to be the case. And since that is that, I had better get use to the fact that I have to spin this yarn in its interity. With that said……. This is my curse, this is my fate, this is my destiny, this is my story…..