That is SO not post-racial!

You may have heard of Bethany Storro, the White woman in Washington State who, in August, claimed that she was attacked by an unidentified Black woman “with an athletic build” who threw acid in her face.  In spite of serious holes in Storro’s account of the incident (just for starters,  her eyes were protected by sunglasses that she was wearing at night) this story made national headlines.  While police searched for a suspect, sympathy cards came flooding in from all over the country to the hospital where Storro lay recuperating from her injuries. 

 This week, Storro confessed that she made the whole thing up, and that her injuries are self-inflicted. The Black female assailant everyone’s been looking for?  Completely fabricated.

Unbalanced White criminals blaming fictional Black perpetrators for offenses they have committed is (regrettably)nothing new. Susan Smith did it in 1994, and Charles Stuart did it in 1989…the list goes on and on. What seems to be a relatively new twist on everybody’s favorite go-to lynch mob meme is the addition of self-inflicted injuries to the roster.  Remember Ashley Todd, the McCain supporter who in 2008 claimed that she was robbed at knifepoint by a Black assailant who carved a “B” (for Barack) on her face?

Oh, and then there’s Sergeant Robert Ralston, the Philadelphia cop who shot himself and blamed it on a Black man with cornrows.  

Black men with any manner of hair were stopped and questioned by police in the Overton section of Philadelphia for about a week after the incident. Fortunately, no arrests appear to have been made in relation to the falsified report, but the potential for harm was substantial.  I mean, just imagine something like this happening with the NYPD! Oh, wait.

What fascinates me about all this is that the key to making these offenses plausible has been the addition of an imaginary Black offender. The perpetual  troping of Black people as violent and criminal (among other things) creates a myth of  constant potential White victimhood, and the more damaging and sinister countermyth of the necessity of unrelenting vigilance against Black criminality.  What troubles me more is that some White people are willing to actually invent a crime in order to have a Black person to blame it on.  Ralston, Smith and Stuart dumped their crimes at the doorstep of unidentified Black offenders to throw the police off their guilty trails. Todd and Storro made shit up with the specific intention of  vilifying Black people.  Ya know, because we don’t have it hard enough as it is. SIGH.

As saddened and outraged as I am about this, I’m not surprised. There’s bound to be at least one more case like this before the year’s out. World, get better.

A Dream Deformed: Glenn Beck marches on Washington

   

 Saturday, August 28, 2010 was an extraordinary day here in the United States.  The date marked the 55th commemoration of the lynching death of Emmitt Till. It also was the 47th anniversary of Martin Luther King’s incredible “I Have A Dream” speech, which was arguably the single most important moment in the Civil Right’s movement of the 20th century.  And on Saturday,  Glenn Beck,  Sarah Palin, and a host of other conservative politicians and political  figures including   Michele Bachmann  and (sigh) Alveda King gathered with hundreds of thousands of their conservative supporters for a “non-political” rally on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.  (Beck insisted that the date selection was purely coincidental.)  I watched with equal parts outrage, sadness and amusement as the Restoring Honor march/rally/hullaballo-making unfolded on Saturday. With so many politicians spear-heading and keynoting the event, if promoting a political agenda wasn’t the goal, then what was? (Do you want more? Heck yeah, ya do! Go, read, enjoy!)

Every time Glenn Beck cries, an angel gets its wings. So kick him in the shins.

Laughing Racism: Beyond the #browntwitterbird

Last week, an article in Slate entitled ”How Black People Use Twitter: The latest research on race and microblogging”   caused a  bit of a stir and some moments of sheer hilarity on Twitter and in the Black blogosphere.  The piece’s incomplete research and (unintentionally) racist and insulting tone  was noted and brought to the attention of the author himself both on Twitter and on personal blogs.  Author Farhad Manjoo’s 6-month surveillance of the Twitter habits of young Black people smacked of virtual cultural tourism.   (By the way, Manjoo defended his article, stood by his theory and flawed research, and as of this write-up, hasn’t changed his tune one whit. )

Adding insult to injury, Manjoo’s piece featured a brown redux of the classic blue (but possibly racially White, apparently) Twitter bird as a brown, oversized-cap wearing bird holding a mobile device.  (Wanna read more? Of course you do!  Click away!)

DAMN, that’s racist!

 

Pasttime Paradise: Down-Home Racism In “Post-Racial” America

I recently had the pleasure of visiting New Orleans for the very first time.  Having grown up in South Florida,  the city by the river was intriguing, but not as big a draw for me as the metropolises that grace the Eastern seaboard. Going to New Orleans – with its similar swamps, oppressive torpor, casual appropriation of local Native American culture, and alligator jerky – sounded about as appealing as hanging out with a rowdy, sweaty cousin. However, years of being regaled with tales of every manner of fun that could be had in the Big Easy had intrigued me. NO ONE comes home without an epic anecdote.  More than one jaded and well-travelled New Yorker in my circle got that faraway look in their eyes talking about New Orleans.   My recent desire to explore the regional diversity of Southern cultures (I blame True Blood) and shake off some one-horse-town dust pretty much sealed the deal.  So, with a deep breath and a few mouse clicks, I was ready to go.   

And New Orleans didn’t disappoint. From the start, I was smitten: by the architecture, the streetcars, the museums, the sweetness of the regional drawl, the overpriced souvenir shops, the heavenly food, the decidedly French celebration of debauchery, and (sweet merciful McGillicutty!) the take away cup.  By the second day of my trip I was calculating moving and living expenses. (Really. I was.)  These were the thoughts that danced merrily in my little tourist head as I strolled down Chartres Street on my way from viewing the grounds of the Saint Louis Cathedral.  I was feeling better than I had in weeks, maybe even months.  So I was most unprepared to meet one resident of New Orleans who I would not soon forget.         

This is Nola Mae.        

        

 Nola Mae is the “flagship” doll of the Big Lips: “The Better To Kiss You With”  New Orleans Doll Company collection by New Orleans-based artist Jamie Hayes.   The Big Lips dolls, which are “inspired by Nola Mae”, come in a range of flesh and hair tones. They all feature large round eyes and brightly colored outsized lips, sometimes with teeth.  There are brides, grooms and even tux boys.  Hayes, who counts Vincent Van Gogh among his influencers,  favors unusual designs and exceptionally bright tones and shades in all his work.  His unique style lends itself beautifully to just about anything with a Mardi Gras theme.  The sense of childlike whimsy evident in the prints almost made me smile.           

Inside the gallery

"King Mardi Gras" by Jamie Hayes

"Star Kitty" by Jamie Hayes

 Almost.          

       

To make sure I wasn’t imagining this upsetting showcase of non-malicious racism*  I decided to get some outside feedback.   I attached a picture of the Nola Mae doll and sent it via IM to a friend who I value for his cool-headed objectivity. His response:   

Him: WHAT THE FUCK         

 Him: Where did you find that at           

Me: Yeah…           

Me: At a gallery.           

Him: was it a Klan gallery             

Him: that’s some racist shit             

Him: is this something you bought             

Me: ROFF! No, an artist here makes them.             

Me: And get this: dude is colorblind. So I feel like an ass for feeling like this is kinda really racist.             

Him: bullshit             

Me: No, he is. He can’t see color.             

Him: BULLSHIT             

Me: It’s really bugging me.             

Me: I don’t want to think about it while I’m trying to enjoy my stay here.             

Him: knock something out when you get home             

Him: DAMN that’s racist            

Although I agreed, it would have been facile for me to dismiss some of these works as deliberately racist.  I decided that it was a good idea to see what I could learn about the man behind Nola Mae.    

    

 Hayes’ simultaneous assertion of color blindness and admission of being “a bit of a fibber” notwithstanding, I do think that subconscious, non-malicious racism is responsible for the more racially troubling visual elements of his work. Hayes, a son of New Orleans, in all likelihood grew up with these images all around him, on products and in advertisements.  Hayes may have absorbed – but never bothered to critically examine – these images.  So while Hayes genuinely have no clue as to where his inspiration for Nola Mae came from, I think I have some idea.   

Sigh.

 With her large round eyes, exaggerated lips and beribboned braids, Nola Mae is a textbook example of the classic pickaninny caricature, our very own stateside version of the Golliwogg.  There’s even an accompanying children’s book cataloguing her adventures. (I couldn’t bring myself to buy the book, not even for research.  Apparently, Nola Mae does three special things in it, and if those things have anyting to do with singing, dancing, or chicken and watermelon, my head will explode. It’s worth noting that, per Hayes himself, Nola Mae came years before the book.)  I wasn’t surprised to discover that the Big Lips and Voodoo dolls are  best-sellers. I heard more than one coing visitor describe the dolls as “adorable”  and ”precious.”  An interesting and telling theme that has coalesced around the pickaninny is the idea that these images - grotesque, dehumanized and occasionally sexualized images of Black children - are “cute.”   Not offensive, not racist, not disturbing and unwholesome.  Cute. Similarly “quaint” and “charming” postcards with images of Mammy, Tom and Rastus  litter just about every souvenir shop in the French quarter, and according to one of the store owners I asked, they’re quite popular with tourists.**     

The fact that there has been a healthy market for the consumption of these images since their inception almost two centuries ago belies declarations  of  a “post-racial” modern society.  What has emerged instead is a diabolically sophisticated narrative that combines tenets of  “color blindness” and “tolerance” with post-racialism.  The result: a system of rhetorical gaslighting that permits individuals to indulge in the most blatant kinds of old-school racism  while simultaneously denying its existence. Postcards featuring stereotypical depictions of Black women, men and children aren’t racist, toxic and harmful; they’re “cute” and enjoyable, a nice takeaway for nice hard-working folks who probably voted for Obama, and might even have a Black friend.     

The more things change…     

 

 *I define non-malicious racism as unintentional, subconscious, and/or non-violent racism. This isn’t to suggest that its effects are neutral – they clearly aren’t.    

** The owner I spoke with also informed me that, while her store doesn’t carry “lynch” postcards, they are often requested by tourists.  Read more about them here.

Can we talk about how the Israeli government’s on some bullshit now?

We didn’t talk about it when this happened. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this. Or this.  Or this.  And now, we have this.

So can we talk about it now? I mean, really. Can we talk about how condemning the actions of the Israeli government is common sense? Can we have this discussion without having it all boil down to ridiculous polarization and accusations of anti-Semitism? And can we openly condemn anti-Semitism when it does appear -because it will - and remain confident that doing so only strengthens the case for right? Can we just come the fuck out and say it when we see shit is WRONG, know that its WRONG, and call it what it is? Can we do that?  

I know that economic sanctions are just not going down (it’s a nice thought, though, isn’t it?), but appalled citizens are welcome to join the ongoing ethical boycott.  World, get better.

Tea Partiers. STILL about the stupidest motherfuckers who ever lived.

::: blink, blink :::

I know I talked about this before, but it bears repeating. I read this sign a few times with my mouth hanging open…proof positive that one can become stupefied by stupidity. Maybe that’s what these folks are going for? I don’t know. I DO know that these were the same assholes who sat with their thumbs up their apolitical butts whilst the previous administration initiated and escalated two concurrent wars-for-profit that made a small cadre of elites rich at the expense of several countries, including this one. I also know that they are LARGELY responsible for this chick’s continued relevance. 

Sarah Palin, pre-$50K makeover, no doubt in the middle of saying something incredibly stupid.

Sarah Palin stepped down from governing Alaska in the midst of a national economic crisis to hitch her moosey wagon to the Tea Party’s star and publicly admonish the President to do his job. Seriously. THAT was her plan. She quit to criticize Obama and promote her book.  Here’s what I said about that on Teh Twitteh. Parenthetically – if she insists on not fading quietly into obscurity (and she does),  can we at LEAST stop calling Sarah Palin a “pageant queen”? She won Miss Congeniality. MISS CONGENIALITY. Hell, I could win Miss Congeniality, right now, sitting here in my funky ole t-shirt and pajama pants with the hole in the crotch. I’m just saying. (Oh, and here’s the sister woman who beat her ass swept the talent portion of the Miss Alaska pageant and was crowned  Miss Alaska 1984.  Go on ahead and smirk. I am.)

Maryline Blackburn. Singer. Model. Democrat.

 One thing I’m glad about? It took the tea baggers and their more violent, extremist ”fringe” (I’d say “core” was more accurate, but okay…) to shock mainstream media out of its reluctance to call them what they are: xenophobic, anti-intellectual, racist, reactionary, anti-progress and most emphatically un-American. Oh, and stupid. Really, REALLY fucking stupid. Did I say that already? Eh. One more time couldn’t hurt.

Oh, Skip Gates. You silly bitch.

I’m at capacity for Teh Stoopid right now, so please read this summation, this hilarious take-down, and this excellent dissemination of this piece of poo.  Enjoy!

Quit tryna jack my Black Black Blackity Black.

Dear World:

Please pay close attention, because I am only going to say this once.

I am Black. In spite of some less-enlightened protestations to the contrary, we don’t got Indian in our family; however. slave-owner/sharecrop boss runs rampant on both sides. I’m not bigenerationally biracial, or mixed-up-with-something else, or maybe-Ethiopian, or kinda Samoan, or Domini-Rican or whatever else people come up with. If I WERE any of those things, I’d be just as proud.

But I’m not. I am Black. BLACK. Southern-born and bred. Product of generations of countless other surviving and beautiful Black people.

I get my Arabic name from my mama, just like you got your white bread one from yours.

I borrowed my grandfather’s eyes and hair, my daddy’s lips and resilient skin, my grandma’s melodious voice and  laugh, and my mama’s flat butt and ridiculously sunny disposition. 

Nothing about me is imported beyond what is now known as the United States. My mama from here. My daddy from here. They mamas and daddies from here. 

It doesn’t make me any less gorgeous, brilliant and fly than I was five seconds ago when you thought I was “more” than “just” Black, and if it does then that’s because you’re an asshole.

If you crossed the room, tried to get my number, held a door for me, smiled too long, and stared too hard because something about me told you I wasn’t Black, then that’s because you’re an asshole.

If my charm,  intelligence and general awesomeness – things that I see everyday in Black folks – are something you find to be “uncommon,”  then that’s because you’re an asshole.

I’m not trying to escape my Blackness. It is part of me. It belongs to me. Further attempts to separate us will be met with violent resistance. If you’d rather not catch a beatdown, do yourself a favor and cut that shit out.

Smooches!

Me

Trading That “Good-Good”*: Placing Slave Rape On The Consent Continuum

PREAMBLE:   I’m neither a fan nor a follower of Touré, the person whose online shenanigans inspired this post.  I’ve said before that Twitter is gonna ruin quite a few public images and careers before it goes the way of the virtual boneyard known as MySpace; this certainly seems to be the case with him. In the span of about a year he’s gone from being a journalist I liked and respected once upon a time ago to an attention-hungry jerk  a provocateur who agitates for agitation’s sake.  If one wanted to make the argument that Touré goes out of his way to irritate Black people  they’d have quite a bit of supporting evidence.  Between referring indirectly to Michelle Obama as a “ghetto girl”,   compiling a list of sex symbols for the “thinking man” that was oddly bereft of Latina and Black women (Touré’s schoolboy gushing over “stunning blonde”  femme d’un certain age Governor Jennifer Granholm and omission of brilliant and sexy  Shakira  struck me as particularly odd - buuuuut alright), complaining on Twitter about alllll the criticism his interracial marriage (his wife is Lebanese) receives from Black folks,  asking for tips on caring for his son’s “Black” hair  because he and his wife   just don’t have the foggiest about it,  and most recently his statement that self-identified Black Latina Zoe Saldana plays “Black” (he later stated that he meant African-American), he’s drawn ire from a lot of people  - including yours truly.  Touré’s clumsy race dialogue tweets and half-assed, hyper-defensive apologies have become something of a running joke in my Twitter stream, inspiring everything from snarky hashtags  to virtual halibut smackdowns.  And there you have it, some background on “Not-Quddus.”               

Touré . Who has no idea of how to properly care for "Black" hair. (Yes. That's an Afro.**)

  Here’s where  things get interesting (and relevant to the title of this post): On March 1,  Touré  posted a series of  eyebrow-raising tweets about sexual relations between enslaved Black women and White masters. These tweets were first attributed  to his wacky, “Ph.D. candidate” cousin, who had somehow gotten a hold of his Blackberry and was causing a Twitter ruckus.   Realizing that raising the spectre of slavery-era rape by invoking the trope of the Jezebel and juxtaposing this image with contemporary prejudice faced by Black male-White female relationships was inaccurate and offensive,  Touré  wisely deleted these tweets from his feed altogether and had his “cousin” apologize - but not before said tweets were screen-captured on several sites.    

Watching the whole mess come to a rolling boil on Twitter, I noticed a disturbing theme emerging in the dialogue around the tweets.  Rape,  a sex crime typically defined by the absence of non-coercive adult consent, was redefined before  my very eyes in 140 characters or less.  A surprising (to me, anyway) number of people did not consider sexual congress that took place without the threat of immediate violence (brutal coercion) rape.  Because visuals help me think, I hastily assembled a linear color spectrum to better understand this new information. 

Child—————————————————————————————————Adult     

Enslaved——————————————————————————————Free     

Rape ———————————————————————————————————Sex   

   

The Consent Continuum. (Not great at visuals. Sorry.)

  While my idea of  consensual sex rests firmly  in the purple-indigo area of the consent continuum above, other folks seemed to veer towards the yellow-green part of the spectrum (where I’d place things like absence of physical resistance or encouragement of advances, ability to solicit favors on behalf of self or other enslaved individuals, and so on.) I read comments that argued that the legal age of consent has long been a point of contention; that people didn’t live as long back then so it made sense to become sexually active earlier; that Black people mature faster sexually (yes, someone took it there); that slaves sometimes loved their masters and so it wasn’t RAPE rape, etc.  

 The re-imagining of master-slave sexual relationships is nothing new. It is part-and-parcel of the romanticism that accompanies certain forms of revisionism in the analysis of American history.  Predictably,  Sally Hemings was raised. Hemings’ relationship with Thomas Jefferson is often touted by revisionists as the quintessential slave-master love story. During the discussions, I was dismayed to discover that most people aren’t aware that Jefferson began engaging in sexual congress with Hemings when she was in her early teens, that their children were never officially freed while Jefferson was alive, and that she herself was NEVER freed by Jefferson – not even on his deathbed. In fact, records indicate that Hemings and at least one of her relatives were sold to a nearby plantation in order to settle Jefferson’s significant gambling debts. I argued that Jefferson – by having sex with Hemings when she was a child, by being her owner, and by never freeing her – was a rapist on multiple counts. I also argued that Hemings frequently visited Jefferson’s grave after his death, and that the Abermarle county census of 1833 listed her as a free woman (she died in 1835).  I closed by stating that while it is extremely likely that Sally Hemings loved and was loved by her rapist Thomas Jefferson,  her love for him did not absolve him of his crime, because whatver benefits Hemings or any enslaved women enjoyed by virtue of her relationship with her master were entirely relative to her status as human property.*** 

With all of that in mind, let’s compare this:”…[Some enslaved women] were cunning and brilliant enough to use their bodies to gain liberation thus fooling massa.” 

To this:  

 A stereotype persists of African American women as immoral and therefore less deserving of protection from violence or sexual exploitation. In 1744, Edward Long, in an attempt to support slavery, published his conclusions about African women. He characterized them as “ignorant, crafty, treacherous, thievish, and mistrustful.” 

And this: “Of course most were raped, we know that, but some were sharp enough to trade that g00d-good for status or liberation.”   

To this: 

 Slave women were property; therefore, legally they could not be raped. Often slavers would offer gifts or promises of reduced labor if the slave women would consent to sexual relations, and there were instances where the slaver and slave shared sexual attraction; however, “the rape of a female slave was probably the most common form of interracial sex.” A slave woman explained, “When he make me follow him into de bush, what use me to tell him no? He have strength to make me.” 

Without the aid of actual documentation, musings about the daily survival of our enslaved ancestors are pure speculation. My foremothers were absolutely survivors – I’m living proof. And while I don’t like to think about everything they had to endure, I absolutely believe that in order for this country’s race relations problem to be well and truly healed, we’re gonna have to acknowledge  this and EVERY horror-filled aspect of our national legacy, square-on and courageously. This discussion and the others must take place, and they must be handled with the intelligence,  nuance, sensitivity and historical perspective that they deserve.

 

*Good-good? Really? REALLY really?

** Yes. An Afro.

*** What tends to be forgotten in these discussions is that enslavement was not a natural, immutable condition. A slave’s owner had the power to grant a slave their freedom at any time they wished - if they desired to do so.  Viriginia law did not allow freed slaves to remain in the state, and Hemings, as a free (if kept) woman would have to move to a neighboring state, away from Jefferson.  I strongly believe that Jefferson’s decision to allow Hemings to remain enslaved – in spite of his own grave concerns about the fundamental immorality of the  institituion of slavery –  was tied to his desire for her company, excluding any other possible White suitors. Your woman could leave you; your slave could not.

UPDATE: 28 Days Without the N-Bomb, Day Seventeen

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry Three: I now have “shakes” and night sweats. If I am to make it through the rest of this month, I am going to need a gag order for these wockaflockas.

During moments when the n-bomb hangs dangerously in the air, I have taken to defacing pictures of Tyler Perry. He hasn’t said/done anything particularly ill-advised recently that I’m aware of. I just don’t like him.

There's more art here than in ALL of his movies put together.

Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhh. Now THAT’S how you spell “relief.”

Oh, John Mayer. You silly bitch.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I am not a John Mayer fan.  To me, he’s indistinguishable from every other suburban White dude who grew up wanting to be a musician because it looked like it might lead him to some pussy. I mean, a guitar and a garage do NOT a musician make. That whole song about body wonderlanding did not make my heart melt. What can I say? I hear words like “porcelain” and “alabaster” and just tune the fuck out; you’re CLEARLY not talking to my sexy brown self, so all we are is in each other’s way. Don’t even get me started on that ridiculous and vaguely creepy song about daughters.  ::: shudders ::: 

Ah, but Johnny, being the jackhole that he is, felt it necessary to elaborate in a recent interview with Playboy, where he basically dropped the n-bomb with abandon and said he wasn’t really interested in experiencing the joys of the cocoa honeypot. (Because, ya know, that’s all Black women are good for. SIGH.)  Now, since Strom Thurmond basically used to say the same thing, I’m giving the statement full-on side-eye.  The lovely Thembi covered this (hilariously) already*, so no need for me to waste time on it.  Because this whole mess feels familiar, I thought it might be a good idea to cross-post Jay Smooth’s take on the Asher “Nappy Headed Hos” Roth and the dangers of becoming too comfortable. LORD.

(*Mayer refers to himself as a “douche” in this interview.  I think he has function envy. But that’s just me.)

UPDATE: 28 Days Without the N-Bomb, Day Five

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry Two:  I have reconciled myself to the fact that using the n-word in my dream is (probably) beyond my control and (mostly) not my fault. I have never been able to completely master lucid dreaming techniques; I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had that whole dream-within-a-dream-within-a-dream thing happen, à la Waking Life.  Still…something about it, feels vaguely like cheating. Silly maybe, but I feel how I feel.  (I may not always know what to do or what course of action to take, but I always know EXACTLY how I feel. Can YOU say that? I hadn’t thought so.)

Soooo many interesting discussions have sprung up from this project/experiment. Partner-in-crime,  friend and friend-of-the-blog Dopegirlfresh (she’s over here and here) and I have discussed how extraordinarily tempting it is to use that word.  It’s the ultimate trump word.  You whip it out and you basically win the game (whatever the game is). As is her wont, my buddy summed up the Word That Wouldn’t Die succinctly and brilliantly: “I been thinking about it, and what I realized it that when call someone an n-bomb, you’re basically saying  ’fuck your life.’ ” And she’s right. The n-bomb is more than just a fighting word –  although that alone would be plenty.  It’s a killing word. It is designed to murder one’s soul. And, as someone who has been on the receiving end of it more times than I care to recall, lemme tell ya, it’s pretty damned effective.

Anyway, dopegirlfresh had the awesome idea of substituting the n-bomb with…wait for it…Wocka Flocka Flame. Now, the name is so absurd that it immediately diffuses the rage that inspired the n-word to leap to mind in the first place, and it’s creative and awesome. Drawback? Most people hear “Wocka Flocka Flame” and think of this:

While I hear it, and think of this:

"Wocka wocka flocka!"

It’s gonna be an interesting month.

UPDATE: 28 Days Without the N-Bomb, Day Three

N-Bomb Chronicles, Entry One: I am pleased to report that my four-week fast from the n-bomb has been quite successful thus far. It has even inspired some fokes in my social circle to follow suit. And here’s the thing we have all agreed on less than 72 hours in.

Not saying that word? It’s hard. HARD.  Even for those of us who only use it selectively, like, I don’t know, less than 15 times a week,  it is reeeeealy difficult to find a substitute that satisfies in conversation. This has, of course, led to some creative solutions.  I’m employing words I used from my childhood when I wanted to insult someone, but couldn’t cuss because adults were nearby, just looking for a reason to make me go and get my switch. I’ll be the first to admit that no other word seems to have the same evil energy – which is why soooo many slurs, ethnic and otherwise, use the n-bomb and a hyphen. (Think about it.) The n-bomb definitely has a gratifying crunch to it…until you realize that what you’re actually chewing is broken glass.  Yeah. That’s not good.

SIGH. Sorry, Huey. I guess I'll see you in March.

I’m also embarrased to report that in spite of eliminating all the obvious sources of the n-bomb (Films set in barbershops, beauty salons or at barbecues; ANY movies by Quentin Tarantino; The Boondocks, etc.) in my daily environment,  The Word That Would Not Die has seeped into my sub/unconscious mind.  That’s right, I said the n-word in my dream. A lot. And for no clear reason! In the dream I was having a heated discussion with a friend about why it is that White people like RUN DMC so damn much.(I know, I know, my dreams are fucking weird.) My theory in the dream was that the frequent employment of guitar riffs in the more popular songs was comfortably familiar to White people, who might otherwise be alarmed.  Highlights from this discussion: “[N-bomb], how YOU gone tell me? That [n-bomb] Dave Chappelle basically proved this shit in that skit he did with that [n-bomb] John Mayer!”  I dropped the n-bomb like it was going out of style in my dream, and when I woke up, I felt guilty! I don’t even know what to make of all that.

I KNOW I can do this. I’m going to stay on the righteous path and let the Mooney guide me. Ohhh-OHMMMMdon’twannasaythenword…Ohhh-OHMMMMitshamestheancestors….Ohhh-OHMMMM…

I don’t wanna talk about Haiti.

And I’m not. Not that I have nothing to say (when is that ever my problem?), but that this whole mess makes my heart hurt. And I’m kinda at capacity for heart ache at the moment. No more, all full, thank you.

Anyway, Joe’s got it covered.  He talks about Haiti and Guantanamo,  Pat Robertson’s stankin’ ass,  Haiti’s beautiful natural features and extraordinary history,  the absurdity and racism of supposedly liberal  media reports of homeless amd starving Haitians “looting”,  and the best way to help Haiti.    Go read his blog. Get like me.