Conseula's Semi-Annual Breastfeeding Rant, or Why Mammies are Still a Bad Idea

Full disclosure time: I am troubled by the cult of breastfeeding. No, scratch that. The cult of breastfeeding culture pisses me off. When we had our first daughter we decided for very personal and very real reasons not to breastfeed. When we looked for information about formula feeding, we found very little that wasn't designed to induce feelings of guilt and inadequacy in mothers in didn't or couldn't breastfeed. Apparently our decision to use formula exclusively doomed our first born to be fat and stupid and lazy. When I came out of my new mother fog, I realized (as I did about so much of the American cult of motherhood) that breastfeeding culture (though not necessarily the act of breastfeeding itself) is a tool of patriarchy. "Tool of patriarchy" is a phrase that sounds archaic, as if it should only be used in an SNL sketch mocking second wave feminism. But the phrase exists for a reason. It exists because there are actual systemic forces that combine and conspire to keep women in proscribed roles that benefit men. Breastfeeding is one of these roles.

Breastfeeding is hard and exhausting. It is also, often, isolating and lonely. Breastfeeding makes going back to work full time more difficult than it otherwise might be. It makes getting a full night's sleep nearly impossible. It places the care of an infant squarely and necessarily on the shoulders of the mother.

That's just fucked up. I reject that the cult of breastfeeding. I reject the notion that I should breastfeed because doctors say it's best. Doctors once said giving a woman a hysterectomy would make her adapt better to her role as wife and mother. Doctors once said homosexuality is a disease. Doctors let my 16-year-old mother labor alone in a maternity ward for hours because "those women just pop them out like puppies." Excuse me if take what doctors say with a grain of salt.

I also reject the notion that feeding my child from my body is my duty and makes me a good mother. The greatest benefit of formula feeding, besides allowing me to hang on to my sanity and maintain some semblance of my life apart from my children, was that it allowed my husband and our friends the opportunity to bond with my daughters in a really fundamental way. I rarely got up for night feedings with my first daughter. 2am was daddy/daughter time and I am convinced that that time and my daughter associating her father with nourishment and comfort accounts in large part for the close relationship they share now. Formula feeding allowed my husband to participate fully as a parent in a way the cult of breastfeeding seems to think is unimportant.

This morning's breastfeeding rant was brought on by this article from Time magazine. It's about the rise of wet nurses in America. Here are some gems from that article.

"Advocates argue that milk sharing lets women be good moms while fulfilling other goals."
Because good moms breastfeed, you see, regardless of whether or not they can or want to. We might forgive your going back to work if you shell out the $1000 a week for a wet nurse.

One mother who cross-nurses with her neighbor says, "It takes female friendship to another level. You're trusting another person to nurture your child."
Because while hiring someone to care for my child while I work outside the home dooms me to a special place in hell (how often do working mothers have to answer to charges of paying someone else to raise our children?), we can forgive allowing someone else to breastfeed my child because it builds female community.

Here's the best part of the article, though:
Brenda (whose last name is withheld to protect her clients' privacy), 42, has wet-nursed 10 babies in the past seven years partly to help send her own two kids to college. She has mulled over the social implications of her work--because she's black and eight of the families she has worked for are white. "A friend asked me, Don't you feel like you're the mammy?" she recalls. But she finds her job fulfilling, and sometimes amusing. "If you're someplace with the family and the baby starts to pull at your blouse or put his hand in your bra, that can be embarrassing," she says, laughing.

Imagine this scene people. A nice middle class white family is out at dinner with the black woman who breastfeeds their kid. I bet the white couple tells friends that the black woman is just like one of the family. Am I the only one appalled? Remember those tools of patriarchy I mentioned earlier? Here they are at work. Poor black and brown women do not want to breastfeed privileged white women's kids. Yet they live in a society in which they feel that their most tradeable commodity is their bodies. So they scrub white women's floors and shake their asses in rap videos and, apparently, breastfeed other women's kids. That's the patriarchy at work. The same patriarchy that guilted all those white women into needing a wet nurse in the first place.

Of Nappy Headed Hos and Condoleeza

There's probably been more than enough said about Don Imus and the Duke rape case. And I have debated whether I should add my voice to the throng. I've drafted and deleted several posts. But this won't leave me alone. So here goes.

First there are two responses to all of this that drive me insane.

"What ever happened to free speech."
To which of course I might respond, what have ever happened to good manners or common decency. Putting aside for the moment the racist misogyny of Imus's remark, we have to recognize that calling somebody a "nappyheaded ho" is just rude. Yeah, the 1st Amendment gives you the right to be a dick. But having the right to do something doesn't mean that you should. Take this for instance.

"Why do people like Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson always play the race card? We will never get over our divisions unless people learn to let things go."
See, the 1st Amendment allows me to call this racist idiocy. But I won't because I was raised right. I might ask though what the hell this even means. Does it mean that racism will end if we let racists be racist in peace? We can live in a less racially divisive society if only I can learn not to bother you with the circumstances and consequences of my oppression? Your need to live free of discomfort is more important than my need to be heard? And what exactly am I getting out of this? The right to be called a "nappyheaded ho" on national radio? The right to be gang raped at a lacrosse party? Thanks but no thanks.

But here's what's really bothering me about this whole thing. In the rush to defend the Rutgers women's basketball team, it's clear that they have earned our support precisely because they are not actually "nappyheaded hos." They are not the young woman in the Duke case. That nameless young woman--a single mother, a college dropout, a former exotic dancer, as every article reminds us--didn't deserve our defense. We could be outraged on her behalf. We could rail against the white male privilege run amok. But defend her? No. Her very existence proves what so many black women try so hard to disprove--we are not welfare mothers. We are not video vixens. We are not "nappyheaded hos." But getting yourself raped at party full of white men where you were the sexual entertainment doesn't really prove that does it? So there will be no defense of her, no meetings with her, no rallying around her now that North Carolina has decided she's a liar.

But the Rutgers girls, these girls, are on the Condoleeza Path of Success. They have struggled, worked hard, followed the rules, played the game and it's paying off. They have been trotted out on TV, not a nappy head among them, looking every bit the bright, high achieving women they are. And the implication, at least to my eyes, is that they deserve our protection because they are good girls. What would have happened if they had been less than good?

Maybe this all bothers me because I was placed on the Condoleeza Path of Success early in life. I learned, even though no one ever said these words, that being smart and well-spoken and modest would protect me from many of the degradations that so many black women have to live with every day. And I succeeded. I live with a certain amount of privilege that many many many black women don't have. It's amazing how people's facial expressions and body language change when I introduce myself as Dr. Francis or mention that I'm a college professor. A whole set of assumptions about me get thrown out because of that PhD. But Dr. Francis isn't exactly tattooed on my forehead, is it? I walk around in my brown skin, appearing very much the nappyheaded ho to the Imuses of the world simply because of that brown skin. It's small comfort to think that, apparently, my only defense against that is trying really hard to be Condoleeza.

Condilicious

Brian ran across this online and thought it was hilarious. (Although it may not be hilarious if you're conservative or if you haven't seen the Fergilicious video.) Enjoy. Let him know what you think.

Crock Pot Meatballs

Brian and I are renewing our vows to celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary (which two months ago seemed like a really fun idea, but today seems like a lot of hassle, but I digress...). Anyway, we want to serve some of those yummy meatballs that people bring to potlucks in crockpots. But I don't actually know how to make those meatballs. And there are approximately 9,874,562 recipes on the internet. So that's not really a help.

Do any of you out there (all three of you reading this) have any good crockpot meatball recipes?

Also, expect a post soon from Brian about the death of his favorite superhero Captain America. He is none too pleased.

Strom Thurmond and Al Sharpton

This is sure to be all over the news tomorrow, but I couldn't wait to comment.

Professional genealogists have discovered that Al Sharpton's ancestors were slaves owned by Strom Thurmond's relatives.

Is it wrong that this news causes me all sorts of glee? I don't want to examine that reaction too closely.

Brian says that, given Thurmond's proclivities with the ladies and historical practices of slaveowners, maybe Thurmond and Sharpton are related. Hee!

More Books by Black People You Should Be Reading (and a few words about hip hop)

As I mentioned last night, the PBS documentary Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes featured a number of critics and historians whose work I really enjoy. You'll probably enjoy them too.

Jelani Cobb
He's a history professor at Spelman College and was one of the most vocal supporters of the young women there when they spoke out against the portrayal of black women in hip hop music. His latest book is called The Devil and Dave Chappelle. Don't you want to read that?


Mark Anthony Neal
He's a professor of Black Popular Culture at Duke. He works primarily on black popular music, which he argues functions as vernacular theory in black culture (which is the same thing I argue about African American literature, but he sounds much smarter than I do and has published five books. I try hard not to hate him). His latest book, New Black Man: Rethinking Black Masculinity, is a wonderfully insightful and passionate call for a new blueprint for black masculinity that doesn't keep black men locked in the soul-killing box of homophobic, misogynist, patriarchal, violent, hypermasculinity. It's a great read.

And a few words on hip hop: in the last three days I've seen and heard a number of talk show segments dedicated to the ills of hip hop. Paula Zahn' show tonight featured a poll--Hip Hop: art or poison? (Uhh, can't it be both? As a woman, I find Kanye West's "Golddigger" ["I ain't saying she's a golddigger/But she ain't messing with no broke nigger"] kinda insulting. But it's also a really, really good song.) We all seem really eager and willing to discuss all that's wrong with hip hop, very ready to chastise these artists for their misogyny and homophobia and glorification of violence. Yet, we don't seem to get that worked up about those same issues elsewhere in our society. Is misogyny particularly wrong when it comes from black men? Do we care about homophobia only when black men are doing the gay-bashing? As both Tim Wise and Michael Eric Dyson said on Paula Zahn's show, there is a lot to criticize in hip hop, but we shouldn't let that distract us from the larger issue, namely that things like sexism and homophobia (and racism) are systemic in our culture. And, I would add, let us not forget that 50 Cent and Nelly don't represent the whole of hip hop. To see some alternatives, check out Dave Chappelle's Block Party, a concert film featuring some of hip hop's finest.

Segregated Charleston and Other Thoughts for Black History Month

Today I met with a handful of female students at Burke High School. They were, as I suspected they would be, a delight. On a purely personal level, it was nice to spend time with young women who were neither the mischievious snarky six year old who lives with me, nor the distracted, jaded twentysomethings I teach.

As part of a program I'm coordinating, we are going to give the girls tote bags filled with all sorts of groovy things, including gift certificates for merchants downtown. The idea is to encourage the Burke kids to come to campus, to hang out on King Street, to feel some ownership of the city. I was reminded (I say reminded because I have been told this at least once a month since I've lived here), however, that historically Calhoun Street divides the peninsula and these kids don't feel welcome or comfortable or compelled to go south of Calhoun.

And that fact just boggles my mind. I grew up in the south. I have no illusions about how race operates in the south. My own hometown of Lafayette, La certainly had black and white neighborhoods and black and white schools. We had a black mall and white mall. Hell, my high school had a black and white prom king and queen. And I understood that this was segregation. I understood how the history of racism had gotten us to this place. But I never once felt limited by that. My individual circumstances are certainly different than most of the kids at Burke. Instead of living in a segregated neighborhood, my family lived in a trailer out in the country. I went to integrated schools until 6th grade and then to predominantly white magnet programs until I graduated. Growing up, I spent an inordinate amount of time on a college campus where my mother was a secretary. Does this account for why I felt no limitations related to race (I felt plenty of limitations related to gender, but that's a story for another day)? Are these kids doomed to always feel like they are on the margins of their own city?

In other news, I saw great documentary on PBS tonight called Hip Hop: Beyond Beats and Rhymes. It's about the construction of black masculinity perpetuated by contemporary rap and hip hop and was really good and eye-opening. I very much recommend it. It also featured some of my favorite contemporary non-fiction writers. I'm going to post about them tomorrow.

W.E.B. Du Bois: Black Intellectual Extraordinaire

In addition to my daughter's drawings and an autographed photo of Jon Stewart given to me by a student, three pictures grace the walls of my office. One is a poster of the black power salute at the 1968 Olympics. The second is of James Baldwin. And the third is of W.E.B. Du Bois.

Educated at Fisk, Harvard, and the University of Berlin, Du Bois was first and foremost an academic. He was also a writer, editor, sociologist, historian, poet, and civil rights activist. He believed "scientifc study" was the key to solving most of the world's ills (particularly the problem of the color line in the United States and the problem of third world oppression globally) and dedicated his life to this kind of study. For Du Bois, being smart in the world mattered. More than that, being smart obligated you to making a difference. It is his example I think of when I need reminding that I'm not wasting my life away as an academic.

"Teach workers to work, -- a wise saying; wise when applied to German boys and American girls; wiser when said of Negro boys, for they have less knowledge of working and none to teach them. Teach thinkers to think, -- a needed knowledge in a day of loose and careless logic; and they whose lot is gravest must have the carefulest training to think aright. If these things are so, how foolish to ask what is the best education for one or seven or sixty million souls! shall we teach them trades, or train them in liberal arts? Neither and both: teach the workers to work and the thinkers to think; make carpenters of carpenters, and philosophers of philosophers, and fops of fools. Nor can we pause here. We are training not isolated men but a living group of men, -- nay, a group within a group. And the final product of our training must be neither a psychologist nor a brickmason, but a man. And to make men, we must have ideals, broad, pure, and inspiring ends of living, -- not sordid money-getting, not apples of gold. The worker must work for the glory of his handiwork, not simply for pay; the thinker must think for truth, not for fame. And all this is gained only by human strife and longing; by ceaseless training and education; by founding Right on righteousness and Truth on the unhampered search for Truth."

Recommended: Souls of Black Folk

James Baldwin: Witness and Prophet

Okay, so I'm cheating a little bit here. I'm writing a book on James Baldwin and I've already posted my favorite passage from him elsewhere in this blog. But it's my blog and it's genius passage, so I'm going to post it again. From "Autobiographical Notes" in Notes of a Native Son:

"I do not like people who like me because I am a Negro; neither do I like people who find in the same accident grounds for contempt. I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually. I think all theories are suspect, that the finest principles may have to be modified, or may even be pulverized by the demands of life, and that one must find, therefore, one’s moral center and move through the world hoping that this center will guide one aright. I consider that I have many responsibilities, but none greater than this: to last, as Hemingway says, and get my work done.

I want to be an honest man and a good writer."

Derrick Bell, legal scholar and writer (and perhaps the subject of tomorrow's post) says that American racism is permanent, yet the fight against racism is both necessary and meaningful. What's great about Baldwin's work is that you see him, over the course of a very long and incredibly prolific career, come to this same conclusion. In his essays we see his hope in the civil rights movement, his belief that racial divides could be crossed. And then we see his grief when that hope his lost, this anger and frustration after King and Malcolm X and Medgar Evers are killed. We watch as he goes from being the darling of American intelligentsia to being the whipping boy of black nationalism. What's particularly compelling to me about Baldwin isn't that his prose is often breathtakingly beautiful and his insights spot on. It's that Baldwin never gives us anything less than an honest view of the world and himself, warts and all. He has no agenda, no ideological drum to beat. Make no mistake--he is political. He wanted civil rights as much as the next black man. But he also wanted to be an honest man and a good writer. And these desires often conflicted. That conflict is there on the page for all of us to see and his work taken as a whole is one of the most brilliant portraits of the artist we have in the Enlgihs language.

I recommend: Notes of a Native Son and Giovanni's Room.

Writing from the African Diaspora--Zadie Smith

I love Zadie Smith's work. Her first novel, White Teeth, is set in her native England and explores the rich, complicated, tragic, and hysterical lives of Englishmen and the West Indian and East Indian immigrants who live among them. Like Toure, Smith doesn't shy away from the flaws of her characters, which, as it turns out, makes them much more endearing. Also, like Toure, she writes about race without apology or defense or romance. Her third novel, On Beauty, despite its flaws (she writes about American universities and it's clear she doesn't quite get how they work) is spilling over with Big Ideas and Quirky Characters. And normally that sort of things grates my nerves, but I literally couldn't put this book down. I needed to know how everything turned out for the characters, even the ones who annoyed me. She made me invest emotionally and intellectually in her world. That's exactly what good fiction should do.

I especially love her, though, for this. Zadie Smith on reading:

"But the problem with readers, the idea we’re given of reading is that the model of a reader is the person watching a film, or watching television. So the greatest principle is, 'I should sit here and I should be entertained.' And the more classical model, which has been completely taken away, is the idea of a reader as an amateur musician. An amateur musician who sits at the piano, has a piece of music, which is the work, made by somebody they don’t know, who they probably couldn’t comprehend entirely, and they have to use their skills to play this piece of music. The greater the skill, the greater the gift that you give the artist and that the artist gives you. That’s the incredibly unfashionable idea of reading. And yet when you practice reading, and you work at a text, it can only give you what you put into it. It’s an old moral, but it’s completely true."

Today In Black History: Black Literature

When I started this I didn't really consider how taxing it would be to come up with a black history post every day. So here's the new plan. Everyday I will bring you a book or author I think you should get to know. One a day for the rest of the month will give you plenty of black literature to keep you busy the rest of the year. Today I bring you one of my favorite contemporary writers.

Toure

His stories portray black people in all our beauty and ugliness, in all or greatness and foolishness. Plus they're laugh out loud funny.

Here's an excerpt from "Steviewondermobile," a short story about Huggy Bear Jackson and his car, whose sound system only plays Stevie Wonder music. From the collection Portable Promised Land


So he cruised with Stevie every day. Stevie fit every mood. If he felt upbeat and wanted to groove he pushed button number one and Stevie preached: “Very supa-stish-uuus… write-ings on tha wall…” If he felt sad it was #17: “Lately I have had the strangest feel-ing…” When he had his sweet, late mother on his mind he soothed her memory with #12: “You are the sun-shine of my life… That’s why I’ll always be a-round.” When thinking politics, #73: “A boy is born! In Hardtime, Mississippi! Surrounded by… a world that ain’t so pretty!” Every June first, as the sun sang out and the days got hot, #129: “Ma cher-ee a-mour… love-ly as a summer day!” When he started a new relationship, #97: “Send her your love… with a dozen roses… make sure that she knows it… with a flow-er from your heart.” Yes, he loved Stevie’s entire catalog, even the 80s shlock like Jungle Fever, loved it with the unquestioning devotion the faithful reserve for their God. Huggy Bear was a devout Stevie-ite. To him Stevie was a wise, gifted, mystical being, most definitely from another planet and of another consciousness, part eternal child, part social crusader, part sappy sentimentalist, an unabashed lover of God and women and all things sweet and just. When he cruised down Freedom Ave blasting Stevie he was taking lessons on life. He was meditating. He was praying.

Each Sunday morning Huggy Bear rose with the sun to wash, wax, buff, and pamper his cathedral on wheels. He walked to the gas station to fill his portable can (walking ended up being faster). And then he sat and chose the day’s album, carefully matching it with his mood, spending as much time on this as many women take to get dressed for a big night. When he found the perfect album he laid back, way back, and placed the first finger of his right hand on the bottom of the wheel so that his hand rested between his legs (there was something phallic about it, but he chose not to follow that line of thought). Then he eased away from the curb and cruised into downtown Soul City and onto Freedom Ave, looking for his homeboys Mojo Johnson, Boozoo, and Groovy Lou. They were all Stevie-ites and they all had they own little chapels. Together they would turtle down Freedom Ave, all four rides blasting the same Stevie songs at the same time.

It was essential to ride down Freedom Ave in a pack on a Soul City Sunday afternoon because on a Soul City Sunday afternoon Freedom Ave was awash in music. Everyone in Soul City was devout, but not everyone was a Stevie-ite. At last count there were at least 20 religions in Soul City beside Stevieism: Milesism, Marleyites, Coltranity, the Sly Stonish, the Ellingtonians, Michael Jacksonism, Wu-Tangity, Princian, Rakimism, Mingusity, Nina Simonian, P-Funkist, James Brownism, Billie Holidayites, Monkist, Hendrixity, the Jiggas, the Arethites, Satchmoian, Barry Whiters, and Gayeity. Soul City was a place where God entered through the speakers and love was measured in decibels.

Today in Black History: Celebrate Valentine's Day with Some Black Love

Brian's working tonight, so no music post from him. Instead, I give you a poem, a song, and another poem (and some art) celebrating black love. During Black History Month we focus so much on the struggle and oppression that we forget that black people have lived and loved, have built a life and history and culture.

Happy Valentine's Day!


















Seen my lady home las' night,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hel' huh han' an' sque'z it tight,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Hyeahd huh sigh a little sigh,
Seen a light gleam f'om huh eye,
An' a smile go flittin' by--
Jump back, honey, jump back.

Put my ahm aroun' huh wais',
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Raised huh lips an' took a tase,
Jump back, honey, jump back.
Love me, honey, love me true?
Love me well ez I love you?
An' she answe'd, "'Cose I do"--
Jump back, honey, jump back.
("Negro Love Song" by Paul Laurence Dunbar; art by William Johnson)



















Remember back in the day
When everyone was black and conscious.
And down for the struggle.
Love brought us all together.
Just sittin’ back and talkin’.
Cultivating a positive vibe.
Blue lights in the basement.
Freedom was at hand and you could just taste it.
Everything was cool. Diggin’ on me diggin’ on you.
Everything was cool and brothers were singing
"Ain’t no woman like the one I got"
("Digging You Like an Old Soul Record" by Meshell NdegeOcello; art by Dana Chandler)














I could take the Harlem night
and wrap around you,
Take the neon lights and make a crown,
Take the Lenox Avenue busses,
Taxis, subways,
And for your love song tone their rumble down.
Take Harlem's heartbeat,
Make a drumbeat,
Put it on a record, let it whirl,
And while we listen to it play,
Dance with you till day--
Dance with you, my sweet brown Harlem girl.
("Jukebox Love Song" by Langston Hughes; art by Angela Hermida)

Black Music That Matters

Brian and I wanted to do a black music post in honor of Black History Month. It was to be a joint post until we remembered that we differ wildly in our taste in music (and that I tend to mock what he listens to). Our differing tastes are not that suprising. There's a 12 year age difference between us, as well as very different temperments. Brian spent his adolescence listening to swing and funk, and playing trumpet in a funk band. Funk and swing (and doo wop and Johnny Cash) are mostly what he still listens to. And any new artist he encounters has to satisfy his musician's ear. I, on the other hand, spent my young adulthood listening to grunge and gangsta rap and (oddly) a lot of Paul Simon. I am now a professor of English and bring my love of story and language to the music I listen to. I love lyrics. I also tend to love really really loud guitars and drums.

We both agree, though, that, since they were brought here in chains, black people have used music to speak to and for each other. They have used music to interpret and make sense of the world around them. They have used music to make their mark, to assert their humanity, to remind us that they matter ("I know why the caged bird sings" Paul Laurence Dunbar said; "I'm black and I'm proud" shouted James Brown). Sometimes that music has been profound. Other times it has simply been butt-shaking good. It's always mattered.

That said, we decided to divide the music post in two. I'm going first. Of course any list of this nature is bound to be subjective and reflect little more than the musical preferences of the listmaker. It is also bound to be incomplete. I freely acknowledge this and make no claims otherwise. What I offer here is a list of music by black people that matters to me.

I am in love with think-y, smart, complicated hip hop. Not the nonsense put out by Kanye West or Diddy or anybody waving the flag of the "Dirty South." People like this:

The Roots
Hip hop group extraordinaire from Philadelphia. They are renown for their musicianship (they play their own instruments instead of a "two turntables and a microphone") and intelligence. I recommend their latest Game Theory.

De La Soul
My first hip hop love. De La Soul used sampling as an art, broadened the definition of black masculinity and wrote the best ode to circle jerks I've ever heard. I recommend Three Feet High and Rising.

Tribe Called Quest
Jazzy and smart and *tight* lyrics. Recommended: Low End Theory

Spearhead
The group's leader, Michael Franti, went to Iraq and Afghanistan on his own, and came back with a kick ass protest album, Yell Fire!. Also recommended: Home (featuring the infectious "Love is Da Shit")

Jay-Z
Hip hop master and record level exec. His genius Black Album was made even more so when DJ Dangermouse mashed it with the Beatles' White Album (resulting, of course, in the Grey Album)

And let us not forget the women:

Jill Scott

Soulful, poetic song stylings from Philadelphia. See Who is Jill Scott?

Erykah Badu

Sure, there's a lot faux-mysticism in her persona, but her blend of introspective lyrics and funky hip hop grooves is amazing. Mama's Gun is my favorite.

MeShell NdegeOcello
What's not to love about bald black woman playing bass? Or this lyric: "I'm digging you like an old soul record." Plantation Lullabies is genius (and features liner notes from the inestimable Greg Tate).

And black music I keep coming back to:
Prince
Did you seem him during the half-time show?! He owned that place. In a downpour no less. In addition to being a great musician, Prince is an amazing storyteller. Have you listened to Purple Rain lately?

Marvin Gaye
What can I say about Marvin Gaye? "Trouble Man" "What's Going On?" "Let's Get it On" "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" "Heard it Through the Grapevine" Marvin Gaye embodies what is great about black music--relevant and smart and you can dance to it.


(Wow. This post took me two hours to write. Sheesh.)

Let's Celebrate Whitey Gras

I was going to do a long post about black music, particularly hip hop, that I think you all should be listening to, but then I ran into this and thought I'd share:

Larry Wilmore discusses "Black Trivia Month" and proposes Whitey Gras on "The Daily Show"

Funny funny stuff.

Looking back over the Black History Month entries so far, here's what I'm struck by: I'm sorta snarky and cynical, while Brian is sweet and very sincere. That oughta tell you something about our marriage.

Tune in tomorrow for Conseula's List of Black Music That Matters

Celebrate Black History: Hug A Black Veteran

(Before we begin, Conseula and I want to say hi to anyone here via Lowcountry Blogs.)

In 1942 the Pittsburgh Courier initiated the Double V campaign. The campaign had two objectives: to achieve victories against the Axis powers abroad, and against racial prejudice at home. This was not the first time African Americans tied full citizenship to military service. During World War I, no less a luminary than W. E. B. Du Bois wrote in the pages of The Crisis, the organ of the NAACP, that blacks should put their domestic grievances aside and to instead focus on the common foe.

Throughout American military history, from the French and Indian War, to our current military adventures in Southwest Asia, African American soldiers have served in uniform. Some rallied to the flag out of patriotic fervor, others, because of the draft, and a few sought to either seek adventure, or learn a marketable trade. All too many joined because in America we equate masculinity and power with physical bravery and physical violence. If these men, who were emasculated everyday of their lives, were able to stand against, and return fire to the French, British, Mexicans, Confederates, Indians, Spanish, Filipinos, Germans, Nazis, Italians, Japanese, North Koreans, Chinese, and North Vietnamese, then surely they were brave men and worthy of our respect.

Over the centuries, millions of African Americans joined the military, marched off to war, killed, died, or were maimed, all with the intention of proving that they were men, and that they deserved all of the rights and privileges of full citizenship. The sad thing is that common respect and courtesy, not to mention civil rights, were their due all along, and instead of receiving the respect and rights that they had thought they'd earned in uniform, too many of them returned to a life of institutional racism.

Today's Black History Minute is devoted to my grandfather August who served in Italy in World War II, my uncles Leonard and August who served respectively in the Merchant Marine, and in the Navy in the same war, to my uncle Smith who served in Viet Nam, and to every black man and woman who was ever called "Nigger" while walking in their hometown while still in uniform.

Today in Black History--Barack Obama isn't black

Apparently I missed the last Meeting of Black Folk, which is too bad because it was a doozy. Quick on the heels of Barack Obama's apparent decision to run for President of the United States, Black Folk have decided that he isn't really black. Because his father is an African immigrant (arriving here in 1959) and his mother is white, he has no claim to "blackness." As Debra Dickerson (author of a truly annoying book called End of Blackness, and no the irony is not lost on me) says in the clip, Obama is like an adopted brother. The suggestion from people who argue against his blackness is that Obama is taking unfair advantage of the cultural cache, the gravitas if you will, that comes from being black in America.

Did I miss two Black Folk meetings? Have I slipped into some alternate reality where being black is some sort of advantage when running for national public office? An advantage so great that you'd claim blackness even though you don't have to?

Of course the love affair with Obama had to end as soon as he threw his hat in the presidential ring. That's not what annoys me here. What annoys me is that of all the things smart black people could be questioning about Obama (like the fact that he voted for the atrocious bankruptcy bill, like the fact that he lacks experience for the office, like the fact that his popularity rests on white America's fascination with people who are just black enough to be titillating), they instead spend their energy arguing that he is not black.

And we wonder why black people aren't taken seriously in national politics.

Today's Black History Minute

Tonight I bring you a fine example of why we need Black History Month. It's so we can prepare people to "just say no" to insanity like this.


You see that chain Sam Jackosn's holding? Christina Ricci is attached to the other end of it, in her underwear. Don't believe me? Check out the trailer on You Tube.

There are no words people. No words.

Tommie Smith Update

On one of the news shows this morning Tommie Smith was promoting his upcoming book: Silent Gesture: The Autobiography of Tommie Smith.

Just remember you heard about him here first.

1968 Olympic Black Power Salute

The guy in the middle is Tommie Smith. The gentleman on the right is John Carlos. This picture was taken at the 1968 Summer Olympics in Mexico City.


A poster of this photograph graces the wall of my office. It's the first thing people see when they walk in. In grad school I had a photocopy of this picture taped inside the library cubicle where I read for exams.

I love this picture. Not only is it just a powerful image, a beautiful composition, it symbolizes for me much of the dilemma of being black in America.

In 1967, at the height of the black power/black unity movement, amateur black athletes organized the Olympic Project for Human Rights to call for a boycott of the 1968 Olympics. They issued this statement:

“We must no longer allow this country to use a few so called Negroes to point out to the world how much progress she has made in solving her racial problems when the oppression of Afro-Americans in is greater than it ever was. We must no longer allow the sports world to pat itself on the back as a citadel of racial justice when the racial injustices of the sports world are infamously legendary… any black person who allows himself to be used in the above matter is a traitor because he allows racist whites the luxury of resting assured that those black people in the ghettos are there because that is where they want to be. So we ask why should we run in Mexico only to crawl home?”

What's a black Olympic level athlete supposed to do in this situation? Because of course the OPHR is right. We still point to black success in college and porfessional sports as a sign of progress, even when so many other signs point to the contrary. But, then again, some athletes, like Tommie Smith and John Carlos, believed that they were black men *and* athletes. And not just athletes, they were runners. They were in full support of the cause of OPHR, but they also knew they'd never be that fast again. How could they not compete?

They medaled in their event and then stood barefoot on the medal stand and gave the black power salute. Then the US Olympic Committee stripped them of their medals and evicted them from the Olympic Village.

And the white guy in the picture? Australian runner and silver medalist Peter Norman. He wore an OPHR badge in support of the athletes. He was ostracized in Australia, failed to make the 1972 team (despite coming in third in trials) and became a depressed, heavy drinker. He died last year. Tommie Smith and John Carlos were pallbearers at his funeral.

You can read more about here.

In honor of Black History Month

Brian and I have decided to celebrate Black History Month here in our blog. We'll leave aside for the moment all the arguments about why relegating black history to the shortest month of the year may not be the best idea. Instead, everyday one of us will post something related to black people/history/culture that may or may not be educational, but will certainly amuse us. And since we are six days behind, here are six links to virtual places Brian and I frequent.


1. Afrogeeks
Funny, snarky, smart blog maintained by two self-proclaimed Afrogeeks (yeah, I borrowed the name from them). Consider this recent comment about the much overrated film "Hustle and Flow" :

I hated Hustle and flow, that old busta ass wanna be piece of shit movie And if anyone ever sings that It's hard out here for a pimp in front of me again, they'll be singing toothless, word is bond! WHAT THE HELL IS SO HARD ABUT BEING A PIMP? DOES IT MAKE YOUR COOCHIE HURT?

Check them out.

2. Rent-a-Negro.com
This site is legend in our house because it's the only piece of performance art Brian and I have both loved. (It may, in fact, be the only piece of performance art Brian has ever liked.) Go read it and then tell me the Democrats don't owe Barak Obama some rental fees.

3. Black Superhero Museum
Brian spends an inordinate amount of time here. Everything you ever wanted to know about every black superhero created since the dawn of time.

4. New and Notes
NPR's "black" news show (though, of course, no one actually says this). Get a regular dose of smart black people talking about something other than hip hop and the "n-word" (not that there's anything wrong with that).

5. Avery Center
For those of you who are local--an amazing archive/museum right in our own backyard. Their mission in their own words: to collect, preserve, and document the history and culture of African Americans in Charleston and the South Carolina Lowcountry.

6. Black Heritage in Charleston
And if, after you've visited Avery, you have the urge to see more real live black people in our own backyard, the above site provides you with ample links cool places to visit.

And there we are. We're all caught up. See you tomorrow.