The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro, by Frederick Douglass

Here we are in the year 2020 and nothing has changed for the better since I last posted this piece. Trump and his SS Goons feel so emboldened that they are openly using Nazi iconography on T-shirts and baseballs. The police are still gunning people down. In Florida (among other places) they (cops) laugh and crack jokes about it. Seattle’s CHOP has been broken up–in fact, it never amounted to much except a lot of “revolutionary” hot air and posturing.

The phony shea-butter petty-bourgeois “woke” crowd is still dick-riding off the mass movement in the streets. It has been successful in reviving BLM (partly because they are not nearly as snobbish and exclusive as they were four years ago) by capitalizing on ordinary black people’s anger. (Some are getting rich off of this new grassroots rage.)

It does not really care about the sufferings of ordinary black men and women and prefers to blow smoke up the asses of their own respective cliques. (No, this is not a veiled reference to Black trans people, though some fake “woke” negro types have used their murders as an alibi to shit on all of us. For instance, a few days ago Dominique Fells, a black transgender woman, was murdered by Akhenaton Jones–some colored closet case. His goofy-ass name speaks for itself: another whacked-out cult-nat.)

And in other bad news, 27-year old Samantha Shader of New York–some fucking so-called “revolutionary” (really a cynical adventurist left-hipster asshole)–attempted to frame some “blacks” (or “schwartzes”) for her firebombing a NYPD car. Shader claimed that some “blacks” (or “schvoogies”) gave her the materials to make a Molotov cocktail. Actually she got the materials from Timothy Amerman, 29 years old and another cynical, phony left-hipster adventurist asshole.

I am reposting Frederick Douglass’s speech because I think it should be read every Fourth of July–as a reminder that in real time, nothing is really happening here; NOTHING IS REALLY CHANGING. Jim Crow is still here; he just changed his name and put on a fucking costume.

A Black Writer in Berlin

The following post is being made on the 155th anniversary of the deliverance of Frederick Douglass’s speech, “The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro.” The full speech (and not just the well-known excerpt erroneously entitled “What to the Slave is the 4th of July?”) is shown below. I did not post anything on the 4th of July–not out of spite, but because my mind was elsewhere. I haven’t even thought of, much less celebrated, this rather pointless holiday for many years. When I was a kid, July 4th was a time to go out and see the fireworks with family.  Today it’s just another day for an expat writer, watching his country fall apart from the vantage point of a neoliberal halfway house that somehow imagines itself to be “tolerant” and “multicultural.” 

Even the most casual reading of Douglass’s text will show one that very, very little has changed–in…

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Black Mathematicians Not Wanted?

Would America “love” this man more if he was a fucking rapper or baller?

The answer is obvious.

Americans are so obsessed with old-time “colored” stereotypes that they would rather die or go blind rather than have a black doctor save their vision or their lives. And forget about a black physicist or black mathematician. The very thought of a black man being able to do calculus is enough to make many American brains explode.

Books You Can Read & 3 Docs You Can Watch Instead of Exposing Yourself to the Reactionary Lies in the “Hidden Colors” Films

I am posting this as a temporary rejoinder to all colored reactionaries and cult-nats (now called “hoteps”) who are still stuck on melanin theory and all that other rubbish. My own views will come a bit later. Suffice it to say that even at this moment, the cult-nationalists still have far too much sway over intellectual discourse in Black America.

Decolonize ALL The Things

Introduction

So I have been thinking about writing this post for a while & now I’m finally getting to it.  In light of a lot of people paying attention to the extrajudicial murders of Black men in the news (& all the Black women being murdered by both the police & Black men but I see the reactionary cishetpatriarchs are ignoring that) a lot of people are open to trying to find out more about their Blackness, our history, and understanding how we got to where we are today.  Unfortunately reactionary cishetpatriarchal Black men & Black women are taking advantage of these interests & are directing many to hegemony painted in Black.

So in light of these misinformation campaigns, I decided to list out key texts on understanding race, ethnicity,  & how white supremacist racism works as well as some ACTUAL documentaries that do a way better job at providing historically accurate…

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AMERICA IS BLIND BY DESIGN

“Do you see me?”

Well?

Do they see us?

A better question should be: do these people even want to see us?

Senator Corey Booker seemed on the verge of tears as he pleaded on the Senate floor for white America* to actually recognize him as a human being. It was deeply impassioned, highly moving–I have to admit that I almost shed a tear–yet in the long run utterly unnecessary and even pointless.

“America,” Senator Booker cried, “I love you. Do you see me? Do you see me? Do you know my experiences? Do you know the failings of our ideals?”

“Being Black in America is to know that a misunderstanding, that an implicit racial bias that an interaction that should be everyday and routine can become a moment that your life is turned upside down, your body becomes broken or you are killed. It’s why so many Black Americans scream out: ‘Do you see me? I do not have your equal justice under law. Do you see me? I do not have justice for all. Do you see me? I matter. I matter. Black lives matter. Black bodies matter. America, I love you, do you see me?”

Senator Booker, the answer to the above question is, quite simply, no. White America does not see us, sir. They never did, and never wanted to. For them to truly “see” us would be bad both for their business interests, and for the stability of this so-called “Great Experiment” of theirs–this massive historical fraud they call the United States of America.

But what you have wrong is your insistence that this white blindness is a failure on the part of white people to live up to the ideals of this American “Experiment.” Nope. Totally wrong. This white blindness (and our subsequent invisibility) is an integral part of the American Experiment. It is entirely by design.

In actual fact, the historical erasure of the African from Western Civilization (and from humanity) laid the very basis upon which American “Democracy” became a possibility. Who the hell else was going to pay for this White Man’s democratic paradise, but our own black bodies?

Senator, this is not hyperbolic bullshit. This is a stone, hard fact. It is precisely what it is, and nothing more or less. Otherwise, Ralph Ellison would never have had to write Invisible Man.

Sir, we are visible to this bloody country only so far as white assholes (and their colored flunkies) see us (benignly) as window-dressing or (more dangerously) as threats. In their sick, depraved minds, we are worse than escaped monkeys from a zoo. This is precisely how the white American views a so-called “African American” who turns up in some fucking white space. This is not hyperbole; this is fact. The death of James Scurlock in Omaha, Nebraska, at the hands of Jake Gardner, a fascist who owns a nightclub/bar called The Hive, is proof positive of that. (Gardner was not arrested, of course.)

We are not permitted to function in their spaces, sir. Period. The laws of the land don’t mean shit as far as we’re concerned. That is how the fucking country is set up. That is why your white countrymen keep on fucking it up. They don’t want real democracy in the United States. They definitely don’t want Socialism, unless it’s National Socialism (of course).

White America will embrace every single thing under the rainbow before they even think about looking an African directly in the face. If they had the option of actually nuking their own shit (or, God forbid, even the world) they would do that without even thinking about it. America has already gone fascist; it has been fascist since its inception, and long before the first bullet was fired at the Boston Massacre in 1770. All this insanity, all this blatant stupidity, spinelessness, cowardice and brutality has been implemented simply to avoid dealing with the reality of New African humanity.

There’s a reason why these whites and coconuts are so hopelessly blind. For white people to deal with the implications of George Floyd’s death, they would have to deal with his humanity. They can’t. Which largely explains why Mr. Floyd (along with Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Eric Garner, Terrence Crutcher, Tamir Rice, and countless others) is dead. It also explains why it was so easy for a monster like Officer Chauvin to so casually choke the life out of this man. Officer Chauvin, like untold millions and millions of white Westerners, simply did not see George Floyd as a human being. PERIOD.

The minds of men and women like Officer Chauvin have not evolved since the end of the 17th century. The European settlers in North America at that time saw Africans as no more than beasts of burden. Their descendants have not changed. Let’s not kid ourselves, though: these whites know good and goddamn well that George Floyd was not a cockroach. These whites simply have to lie to themselves repeatedly concerning the truth of what a Black person is. Too cowardly, too close-minded and spineless to deal with the bare, blunt realities of human life–the main reality being that a Black person’s life has precisely the same value of a white person’s life–these white bigots have had to retreat into a fantasy world. (Call it Disneyland, if you want, because Disney is bigger than fucking Epcot Center.) The sad part of all this is that the rest of the world is being forced to share in this white man’s political, social, sexual, cultural and moral fantasies.

One of the white man’s most infamous fantasies is something called The Negro. The white man concocted this Negro to justify enslaving, dehumanizing and killing Africans. Enter most of your fucking “philosophers” and “thinkers,” among them Voltaire, who judged “Negroes” to be not much better than apes. (The Negro Ape trope was actually stolen from the Persians and Arabs, long-time white skin fetishists and brutal slavers in their own right.)

The more “humane” European “thinkers” (like Arthur Schopenhauer or Jean-Jacques Rousseau) found this reasoning to be too extreme and decided that the African was not an animal, but a harmless child of nature. Simple, child-like, rhythmic, emotional, sexual and above all, primitive, a noble savage. (The same logic was used on the Indigenous American, which naturally did not prevent his genocide–and at the hands of the very same people who called him “Noble.”)

In America, the Founding Fathers made a moral compromise in their beloved Constitution and decided that the African actually was not an ape–but was not entirely a man, either. So Washington, Jefferson, Franklin and Company decided that the African was merely 3/5th of a man. (No question as to what they thought of African women: we already know.)

Because the whole business of reducing Africans to mere commodities had severe moral repercussions, the African gradually had to be ignored or silenced altogether. On the plantations, the African was silenced with a whip or with his tongue being cut out. In the world of letters the African was marginalized altogether and bigoted white men spoke in his place. The image of the African began to shape up along the same dumb tropes, time and again–the image of the savage cannibal, the buffoon, the gorilla, while talk on streets of London, Paris, Dresden, Leipzig, Philadelphia, Charleston, Amsterdam, Madrid and other Western cities complimented the world of letters.

The African, thus shorn of his humanity, became a Negro. And not just one kind of Negro but several kinds, both benign and deadly.

The benign negro (comparatively speaking) was a simple, primitive being devoid of intellect,¹ only good for laughter, music, sex, and some groovy good times. You know, the funky, down-home darkie, a creature never to be taken seriously by anyone and only to be seen in his properly designated social space–on the vaudeville stage (preferably in blackface) and in a nightclub or bar, sax in hand, wailing out earthy, primitive music for whitey to get drunk or high to. Or in a whorehouse.

The deadly negro was but the flip-side of the benign, comical negro. This was the negro whom whites labeled bete noire in French and a black buck in English. The mean, brutal, bloodthirsty, coked-out nigger (according to white fantasies) looked and acted like an ape. He wanted to rape and kill white women and destroy white property. In the real world this so-called “black brute” generally did not resemble the fantasy image that white perverts had of him, but he was a “brute” just the same: not because he committed crimes (he generally did not), not because he “raped white women” (he usually was not interested) but because at bottom, he was impatient with his inferior status in Western society and wished to function as a human being.

Here we have it, Senator: two flip sides of the same coin, the coin of a white, Apartheid Western world. The last bit of currency left over from the Civil War and indeed the oldest coin in circulation. It was minted in 1619.

White America will not see African Americans, but it will see the Negro. The Black person must not only present himself as an inferior being; he or she must also function inwardly as an inferior being. The African must hold his true feelings in check, eliminate any sort of behavior or appearances that will trigger white (read: anti-African) outrage. This Black person must stay out of white spaces, out of white institutions, out of white textbooks, out of white neighborhoods, out of white pictures, out of the halls of white culture save for those rare exceptions where an individual or group of Africans functions precisely in those ways that Westerners find “acceptable.”

“After the Egyptian and Indian, the Greek and Roman, the Teuton and Mongolian,” W. E. Burghardt DuBois writes, “the Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world, — a world which yields him no self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One feels his two-ness, — an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife, — this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa; he does not wish to bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for he believes—foolishly, perhaps, but fervently—that Negro blood has yet a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without losing the opportunity of self-development.”²

As a person, the Negro does not exist at all. We never had anything in common, really, with this “Negro,” this ridiculous social pantomime we’ve been forced to play out on the stage of Western history; we’ve only acted as monkeys, coons, Uncle Toms, Aunt Jemimas, bucks, jezebels, niggers, nig-nogs, minstrels, Sambos and other such foolishness to keep from ending up with knees on our necks, like George Floyd. The real tragedy is that far, far too many of us have taken this Negro pantomime for our true selves.

Education and learning (for Africans) had to be discouraged for a reason. Anti-intellectualism, religious quackery, the jock mentality and blatant stupidity (brilliantly manifested in contemporary “hip-hop”) was actively encouraged by the dominant white society as a way of keeping the old myths of The Negro alive in the African mind. I call it policing the black mind–for unless the black person actually sees himself like his white cohorts see him, the Negro cannot be said to actually exist.

“In the colonial context,” writes Frantz Fanon, “the settler only ends his work of breaking in the native when the latter admits loudly and intelligibly the supremacy of the white man’s values. In the period of decolonization, the colonized masses mock at these very values, insult them and throw them up.”

Meaning what? Meaning that–in order for the African American to learn to truly love himself again, he has to jettison the Negro in himself. And by rejecting The Negro, by default, he is automatically rejecting America. He must reject America. That is how it is, Senator Booker. You just can’t love America. Not only does it NOT love you, at bottom you CAN’T love America any more than an abused child can love a gaslighting, narcissistic parent.

Our white “parent” demands that we keep on laughing, singing, dancing, crying and being stupid little monkeys no matter what the parent does to us. The white “parent” (aka Uncle Sam) does not want you to grow up. We are forced to placate this “parent” by playing the roll of “good boy”–The Negro.³ It is a profoundly unhealthy relationship. It is making us mentally and physically sick. Nothing else can explain our high homicide rates, the chaos of our neighborhoods, the flagrant domestic abuse, the alcoholism, drug abuse and the obscene “hip-hop” culture that has grown up around all this dysfunction. Nothing else can explain the utter fucking stupidity that is “mumble rap” culture. These are all the expressions of a sick, lost, confused people–lost, because we are still tethered to a society that literally FORBIDS us to be human beings.

All of the above is not “Africa” in the least. It is certainly not “America.” It is European Colonialism on steroids.

Sir, it is not possible to function in a society that is hot-wired to think that our mere existence is a crime, and whose entire foundations are built upon our Black selves being perpetually nothing. By any moral standard, this is completely unacceptable.

It is impossible to function even in a so-called “liberal” and “multiracial” society that is so thoroughly anti-African American that an entire dictionary (running to hundreds of pages) can be compiled from all the various slurs used to denigrate us, or even the color black. (Even the word “denigrate” is problematic: what the fuck does it mean to “de-nigrate” somebody? Or “blackball” or “blackmail”? What the fuck is a “blackguard”?)

As for the “conservative” element in this so-called “society,” no comment: their willingness to commit treason to “make america great again” speaks volumes.

Today (after a lull following World War Two, the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin Wall) all the old horrors of the old, reactionary Europe are returning in full force. Those Europeans who are snickering over the demise of America barely realize that they are also snickering over the death of Europe. They have forgotten precisely where “America,” Europe’s concept of the Other Hemisphere (aka Turtle Island) actually originated. Whites worldwide are “pissed off” not because of “mass immigration” of “niggers” from Africa and the Middle East, but because the Negro they created in desperation has ceased to exist.

Is it any wonder that your average white Western Joe and Jane seem to be stumbling through the wreckage of their own ugly cities like doped-out zombies, incapable of emotions, devoid of humanity? Or that nearly everything they try to produce in terms of art, architecture, academia, fashion, music, etc., is so appallingly mediocre? Or why their socio-sexual relations are so deeply contaminated with flat-out narcissism? To destroy us, the Westerner had to destroy himself.

Why in the hell are we demanding love and acceptance from people who have no love in them?

Cory Booker, like W.E.B. DuBois before him, speaks of hope. “(It) is essential,” he says, “but it is not enough.” No shit: it was the most right thing he ever said in that speech.

“This is the end of (the African American’s) striving,” DuBois continues: “To be a co-worker in the kingdom of culture, to escape both death and isolation, and to husband and use his best powers.” The only problem being of course is that the “kingdom of culture” in America today is actually Disneyland. I can talk for days about the sheer vulgarity, triviality and mediocrity of Disneyland. Disneyland is Kitsch-on-wheels. We don’t need to work with fucking Disneyland. Disneyland and The Hood are part and parcel of the same benighted space. There is utterly no hope whatever in finding our collective selves–let alone connecting with other people–in such a space. We need one of our own. “Black people live their whole lives in a fantasy world,” Michael Chabon once wrote, “it’s just not their fantasy.”

*

On second thought, maybe everything that I have said so far in this article is unnecessary. White Americans do see us, Cory Booker–as bulls-eyes for their fucking arrows.

And they don’t love us, either: they love the Negro.

Unfortunately–for them, anyway–the Negro is dead.

*

POSTSCRIPT: FOR DUMMIES

TL;DR

  1. Senator Cory Booker pleads before the Senate to pass the fucking Anti-Lynching Bill, which should be a no-brainer. Unfortunately Rand Paul, the libertarian Repug, jams the passage of the bill on bullshit pretexts.
  2. Senator Booker then tells The Senate, “America, I love you. Do you see me?”
  3. America refuses to see New Africans except as they wish to see them–as clowns or murderers.
  4. Not only does America refuse to see New Africans as they are, they demand that New Africans see themselves precisely as white Americans see New Africans–as Negroes.
  5. The Negro is a racist, dehumanized concept of the African which justifies his captivity.
  6. The Negro is the only type of Black person the American white wants to deal with 90% of the time.
  7. The only way Black people can function in American society is to function as “Negroes.”
  8. The only way to function as a Negro is to act stupid, repulsive, clownish, unintelligent, inferior, infantile. White America prefers this because this is how they see Black people.
  9. White America prefers a black “thug” with no brains to a Black professor who is “woke” and knows his own worth. Why? Because the “thug” doesn’t know his own worth, generally speaking. That is why he is so proud of being a “thug.”
  10. Therefore, those Blacks who are not self-hating are forced to pretend as if they are Negroes. Re: Paul Lawrence Dunbar, and “We Wear the Mask.”
  11. The conflict of having to pretend to be a Negro and being oneself often leads to severe mental disorders, even making some blacks homicidal, racist, sexist, homophobic, etc.
  12. A Black person cannot live in American society without being appallingly unhealthy, either in mind or in body. Witness the deterioration of mainstream African American culture and the high levels of obesity among African Americans.
  13. In order for Black people in America to live like human beings without fear of dying from walking through a park, eating their lunch, entering a bar, breathing, selling water, drinking water, trying to buy cigarettes (like GEORGE FLOYD), or just being in your own bedroom (like Breonna Taylor) or sitting on a bench in your own neighborhood, they have to get rid of this current joke of an American system and construct a viable system of their own. American Democracy works, all right–JUST NOT FOR US.
  14. The only way to get rid of this rotten society is to take to the streets. Right here, right now.

 

*note: this includes all non-whites who think of themselves as being white, or who suffer from that dreaded mental illness called “double consciousness.”

¹David Walker’s Appeal: See the inconsistency of the assertions of those wretches–they beat us inhumanely, sometimes almost to death, for attempting to inform ourselves, by reading the Word of our Maker, and at the same time tell us, that we are beings void of intellect!!!! How admirably their practices agree with their professions in this case. (Boston: 1829.)

²W.E.B. DuBois, “Strivings of the Negro People,” The Atlantic, August 1897.

³Hilton Als: “For black people, being around white people is sometimes like taking care of babies you don’t like, babies who throw up on you again and again, but whom you cannot punish, because they’re babies. Eventually, you direct that anger at yourself–it has nowhere to go.” “A Pryor Love,” White Girls, McSweenys, 2014.

 

 

 

The Caucasian Kakistocracy, Revisited

Yes, I know I haven’t posted regularly in over a year. That’s because I was evicted in February 2019 and forced to spend the following year in Green House Berlin. To put it very, very lightly, that was not cool. At all. In addition to all that I had to accept part-time employment as a dishwasher and then a house-cleaner, two jobs which left me too exhausted to do much else other than sleep after work, and after moving to Brandenberg this April, dealing with the loss of my oldest brother, Stephen E. Henderson, Jr., from Covid-19. And, of course, the current revolt brewing in the United States.

I am still at work on that new essay I promised dealing with some of these issues, but in light of current events, I had to update it a little. In the meantime this two year old essay (and some others I wrote even earlier, during the 2016 uprisings) are still relevant because everything has been precisely the same since that time, only a little worse. I even wondered why in the hell I was planning a new essay on this topic (white supremacy and police brutality). After awhile, it really gets a little redundant to have to repeat the same things over and over again in the hopes that people will listen to what you say. Sadly, most of the time nobody is listening at all.

The main consolation that I have is that the rhetoric that I (and other committed black writers) have used is now every day talk on the streets of the US, UK, Canada and elsewhere. Many people are now saying on their social media postings what my generation was afraid to think back in 1987.

 

via The Caucasian Kakistocracy, Revisited

EXTRA|Natty Dominique, storia di un facchino swing

The Book Of Saturday

Nel 1940 Anatie “Natty” Dominique, il trombettista divenuto celebre per aver suonato nella band di Johnny Dodds, fu costretto ad abbandonare la scena a causa di una malattia al cuore*

Chicago’s Midway Airport, 1940. Uno stuolo di Douglas DC-3 in fila indiana e pronti a spiccare il volo. Gli Usa ancora non sono in guerra, ma la vita dell’America libertaria viaggia lo stesso verso lo sviluppo, e i voli tra poco si divideranno tra i bombardamenti nel Sud est asiatico e le rotte civili. Chicago’s Midway Airport, 1940. Subito dopo verrà Pearl Harbour, ma al Terminal ora è un formicolare di persone, valige, e sogni. C’è chi parte per la Grande Mela, i più facoltosi vanno ad abbronzarsi alle Hawaii: chi va, chi resta e saluta.

E ci sono i “redcaps”, i facchini. Loro non partono né salutano, loro aiutano trasportando i bagagli per guadagnare qualche scellino in più. Mezzogiorno…

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The Interrogation

Short story by P. Lewis Henderson

When I returned to my dorm that night, I discovered that I’d locked myself out; my keys were still inside my dorm. I helplessly knocked on the door. I could just barely hear my roommate snoring.

I decided to spend the night in the only place left open on campus—Robeson Hall, the Fine Arts building. I entered through the back where the door was open. I hid in one of the rooms, underneath the easels, nestling under the empty cartons of Chinese food and dust and discarded yellowed newsprint for about five hours or so until I was rudely awakened by a sharp whack across the buttocks. I lurched up and saw a CSU security officer standing there, looking down at me. “What the hell you doin’ sleepin’ in here? You homeless?”

“No, I can’t get in my dorm,” I said.

He sucked in his breath.

I think I remembered his face. He was the officer I went to report that my old car had been vandalized, and he looked very ugly this morning. His nostrils flared. Everything about him—his rigidity, the rapid anticipatory breaths coming out of his chest—spelled open hostility. He acted like he’d met me for the first time; worse, he acted like I’d committed manslaughter. The bastard wanted to see blood: it was written all over his face.

He drew his stick.

“You’re a liar,” he panted, casually flinging the stick around—before he took a wild swing towards my face with all his might. The stick hummed in the air as I ducked away from it. But that merely fed his rage/lust; he hadn’t gotten his release, so he swung the stick again against my ribs; the stick struck it with such force I was surprised to feel it didn’t hurt so much. He looked inexplicably outraged.

“You’re a liar,” he repeated…. “Tell me what the fuck are you doin’ sleepin’ in here, you pissy-ass fuckhead.”

“I already told you I can’t get in my dorm,” I panted, feeling my bladder open up against its will, and the first few droplets of urine already forcing their way into my underwear.

The cop didn’t want to hear what I had to say. He swung the stick towards my face again and this time, he made sure he didn’t miss. The stick thrashed me up across my eye, near the temple, and just at the edge of my mouth, up against the teeth; my teeth cut into my lip. He hit me again in the same place, then when my head jerked around he thwacked me across the back of my skull.

My whole head tingled and suddenly felt very heavy with rage; I seemed to have heard a thousand airplanes roaring through my ears at once. The blood streaming into my eyes began to burn and my right eye violently blinked. It was very thick, glue-like—not the bullshit blood when your finger gets cut. I could hear it dropping everywhere, on the papers, on the floor, like silent atomic bombs….

I looked up out of the other eye. He struck again, but missed, because I covered my head, and that pissed him off even more. I wondered if he was going to kill me; I only hoped he didn’t want to. I had never been beaten by the police and it was my assumption that all those stories about “police brutality” were just exaggerations of flighty, paranoid minds. But there was nothing fanciful about those bits of blood coagulating on the floor. Any more childhood fantasies still latent, kid?

“Show me some goddamn ID, you idiot,” he screeched in abject hostility, unbuttoning his holster.

I gave him my student ID—he snatched it rudely from me, looked at it, turned it around and around, held it up to the light, him poking his fucking Vaseline lips out all the while. “Is this a fake?”

“No—it’s real.”

“It doesn’t look real to me,” he snorted. “Now—how about your validated card? Huh?” He rudely flung the ID on the ground, and stomped on it. “Show me that.”

I pulled it out and showed it to him: he snatched that from me, too. “Oh—so you ARE a student here, after all,” he growled. “Well—that don’t make no goddamn difference to me. Get up, faggot.”

I stood up, but not fast enough for him, because he yanked me up violently by the bloody front of my shirt. Then he slapped me across the face with his big open palm. I felt a stinging numbness there where he’d hit me, commingled with all the other blows, physical and emotional, I had gotten there all semester long. “You’re onea them mo’fuckin’ white boys, huh,” he screeched, looking me up and down bitterly. “You think you somebody special, right? You think you can do whatever the fuck you like? Right? You think you King Shit? Huh?”

I stood there looking at him perplexed. He swung the stick towards me again and struck my arm as I dodged it. “I said you think you can do any fuckin’ thing ya want, right?? Well speak up!—“

“No,” I helplessly whimpered, “I never said that—“

“Don’t you ever talk to me in that tone of voice,” he suddenly spat.

“But I was just—“

“Shutup, nigger, you a goddamn liar!”

“But I—“

The coon cop pushed me roughly to the ground and started stomping all over and around my thighs. My angels told me he wasn’t the only coon cop in the building, and they proved to be absolutely right. The others came right on cue; the two feet turned into seven or eight others. All of them were security officers and, as I could vaguely smell, drunk. When they were finally finished, I rolled over on my back, because it felt better than being on my aching stomach. The ceiling twirled around and around, along with their faces and the coon cop who assaulted me first shrieked, bent over me, with his horrible stinking breath on my face, “you know I can just kill you if I wanted! Ain’ nobody would know I kilt you!”

The others were standing around looking when he forced me back up again by the front of my shirt. All of the buttons were torn off; my blood was all over my chest and my shirt and on his fingers and along the outer edges of his black hands. One of the cops vaguely smiles. Yeah, it’s funny that I got pummeled. The funniest fuckin’ thing in the world.

They make me sit in one of the stray desks. Coon-cop number one pulls his gun out of his holster and then roughly forces it right under my chin. The gun itself seems to be happy knowing I’m about to die; I can even sense the bullet giggling deep down inside the chamber. “I can kill you, black nigger. Or I can do this.”

He rips off my penny-loafers and my socks. He takes matches out of his pocket. Coon-cop number two gets up and locks the door just to make sure nobody comes in to spoil the fun. Coon-cop number three draws his baton, as does coon-cop number four. “Say,” says number four, “you a student here?”

“No, he isn’t,” spits number one, putting matches in my toes, “he isn’t. He’s got some goddamn fake IDs so he can come in here an’ loiter—or steal shit. Goddamn stupid sonofabitch.” He spits violently in my face. My jaws ached so violently I was unable to speak. He slaps me a couple times before the matches begin to burn into my toes. I started to scream, but as I shrieked the officers threw stray paper balls at me and told me to “shut (my) black ass up”. They’d handcuffed my hands to the desk by then and laughed at my every move, until coon-cop number one got up and gave me another violent push and knocked me down so that my head violently rapped on the hard tiled floor…. “Damn! Wilkins, you tryna kill the nigger–?”

“Thass right,” he shrieked, “thass right! Thass right! FUCK that punk-ass bitch-muthafucka! I don’t give a FUCK what the fuck he did do or didn’t do, I’mo fuck that nigger UP! I’mo kill that black-ass sonofabitch!—“

“Say, man,” Coon-cop number two suddenly said, stroking his night-stick, “less FUCK that nigger.” He laughed dryly when he said it. He turned to me and looked me dead in the face with this stupid half-smile. He had a very long aquiline nose with small lips and mouth and protruding buck teeth and skin like cold coffee; he had eyes that rolled around in their sockets with lazy arrogance. “Hey, bitch-nigger,” he barked, “you been fucked in the ass before?….”

I didn’t answer him. My mouth hurt—though I knew I had to get some words out of it if I wanted to live. He got up and walked over, uncapping his brandy bottle. He took the leftover matches with him, too, though he had no cigarettes on him. “I axe you a question, nigger,” he spat. “I said, have you been fucked in the ass before?….”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He doused me from head to toe with the brandy. What was left he tried to force into my mouth. The stench and taste of it burned my nose and throat: everything smelled like rubbing alcohol. When I spat some of it out he smashed the bottle across my lips and teeth.

I felt my head pounding like a billion sledgehammers when he struck the match and started talking shit. He waved it around me. The other nigger cops laughed and howled and slapped their thighs. It just got funnier and funnier, so funny, that they should have made a goddamn sitcom out of it. “You wanna burn, nigger?” the coon cop taunted, “you wanna burn, mothafucka? Burn, baby, burn, baby? Burn the mo’fuckin’ baby?”

“Yeah! Burn baby burn!”

“You better talk, boy.”

“I can’t,” I groaned.

“Awwww, that’s cute. That really is, you know. You know I gotta wife an’ kids, nigger?…..You ain’t known that, did yuh? Did you? Well, lissen….if I knew you were messin’ with them if you grew up, I’d cut your mothafuckin’ balls off an’ stick them down your throat. NIGGER. So,” rasps coon-cop number four, “you been fucked in the ass lately, cocksucker?”

“No.”

“You haven’t?”

He struck another match because the old one burned out….

“No, I haven’t,” I stammered, “I, I’m not, I’m—n-no-n-n-not, I’m not l-li-ii-like—“

“That nigger retarded, yo,” number three laughed. “Leam ‘lone. Nigger gon’ get killed anyway….”

“I’m-I-mnnnnooot, not that w-wa-wa-way,” I stammered.

Coon-cop number two chuckled and screamed “FUCK YOU” and casually chucked the light at my pants. My whole body was suddenly engulfed in flames which lapped quickly all around me for only a second before some kind soul sprayed me all over with a fire extinguisher. He sprayed it in my face and in my hair and my chest and the back of my head and tried to get it in my eyes. When I finally came to my senses I realized they were all over the ground pissing on themselves in hysterical laughter. “Man,” number four cackled, “uncuff that nigger, he’s ready.”

I told them all the lies they wanted me to tell. When they finally saw that I roomed at Dabney Hall, they started piecing things together. Maybe I was responsible for trying to kill this unidentified man whom they found nude and unconscious in the bathroom. Maybe I tried to kill Melissa McCormick and really did crush little Tony Randolph underneath an oak chest-of-drawers. There was little else to say, other than to have them prove it. And where could they do that?

“Come with us,” they told me, leading me out by the arm.

I wasn’t burned at all, but that didn’t mean shit. Anything could have happened now, because this was a typical situation in which black men found their end at the hands of cops. The more blood spilled, the more frenzied they get—it’s a religious thing with these motherfuckers. They took me down to the headquarters, which looked just like a prison. I guess this is where it all ends for one when he decides to educate himself—prison. They handed my “phony” ID card over to some gray-haired kook who clicked on a computer and began hammering away at the greasy keys. They took me into this bare, bleak room with light blue walls and worn, scuffled tiles where, right as I was pushed down, I pissed in my pants again. “Don’t keep on doin’ that, you gotta give us a urine sample before ya leave,” one “lady” says, robotically snapping on rubber gloves: a fat, bloated uncouth package of gold teeth and bobby pins and disgusting warts and wens. With this dreary, flat, disgusting voice, like a hostile, phlegmatic robot, she tells me, “I’m gonna do a strip-search on you, okay? This is to make sure….”

On and on she goes. All night long. Blah, blah, blah, blah, vo-do-do-de-O-do, ooga-booga, unga-bunga, just like the radio mindlessly droning away in the background somewhere about “love”. Get on with it, bitch.

I take off my pants and shirt and they look through everything there. They run a metal detector over the burnt remains of them, put them through the x-ray machine, and then some. They examine every scrap of paper still in there. All the while they explained the burns and bruises away lamely as my having been “drunk” and having “fallen from the shower after washing up”—with that unidentified man they found as their perfect, ready-made alibi. They ordered me to pull my ass-cheeks open, which I did with such unease they did it themselves. “You’re wasting our time, Mister Morris,” the dreary mole-ridden monotone robot snaps. “Cooperate with us and you’ll get it all over with.”

“But I don’t see what all this is about—“

“I said COOPERATE WITH US AND YOU’LL GET—IT—ALL—OVER—WITH,” she shot, more forcefully. Then she stuck something long, thin, cold and hard up my ass. My asshole contracted immediately feeling the cold hard steel. I heard a camera shutter click as I felt the latex fingers probing deeper and deeper, poking around trying to find something, but they didn’t find anything. Then I was kicked around in the sweat room a few more times before a couple guards pulled down their pants and pissed all over me. After that I gave them a sample of my urine, then some of my sputum, then my semen.

When it was all over, finally, I found I didn’t have to sleep. It was daylight already. They handed me my clothes, my card, my validation ticket, my briefcase, and pushed me out, just in time for class.

 

1993, 2011

 

 

White Supremacist Feud Erupts After Augustus Invictus Allegedly Doxes Former Colleagues

And now for some good news. It is highly pleasing to observe these alt-right clowns (of whom I can write about all year long till I’m blue in the face) turning on each other.

I haven’t been able to blog for some time because right now, I’m too busy hustling financially to stay afloat in Berlin. From what I can observe of this place, it looks like the juice really ain’t worth the squeeze anymore. The hipsters, junkies, freakos, knee-grows, quasi-Nazis, and reactionary lumpen trash have flooded out what was left of Berlin’s bohemia. And forget about finding a flat here–finding a room these days (in Berlin) is even more difficult than finding an apartment here fifteen years ago! This subject requires a lengthy article, but I will probably publish the article elsewhere before posting it on this blog (primarily because I can use the money).

Some more good news. Most of mainstream Americans now agree that Trump really is an Orange Orangutan after all. (“Orange Orangutan” has even been picked up by Pastor Manning himself–yes, THAT Pastor Manning, the ultra-right-wing nut who once was second only to Jesse Lee Petersen in peeing all over New African people. Kudos to Gazi Kodzo for flipping the bird at that alt-right Tar Baby.) However, his impeachment only means that another ultra-reactionary clown (most likely Pence, the other half of the far-right “trumpence” that has taken hold of the country this past decade and a half) will take Orangina’s place.

Everybody keep an eye out next year for “The Unbearable Lightness of Being A Negro.” It will be available on Amazon. “Berlin Asylum” is also coming, too. I know there have been delays, but remember I’m in Berlin, a place where you almost have to KILL these days to get shit done. In a nutshell, it’s horrible. But there are other urban spaces in the world besides Berlin, so contrary to what hipster-junkies think, departing this place is certainly not the end and for a serious artist–depending upon where you move to–it might as well be a new beginning.

Angry White Men

Yet another fissure has erupted within the accelerationist fringe of the white supremacist community amid allegations of doxing, personal attacks, and financial mismanagement.

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Charles Bukowski: The Mathematics of the Breath and the Way  

alexanderadamsart

img387Interviewer: What do you hold responsible for your success?

Bukowski: A brutal childhood, alcohol, half a dozen rotten jobs, a dozen rotten women, plus an overpowering fear of everything, plus a strange arrival of luck and bravery in sub-zero situations.

In this new collection of stories, essays, reviews, statements and interviews (compiled and introduced by Bukowski expert David Calonne) we read Bukowski meditating on writing: the experience of writing, how he judged writers, his writing process and why one could (and should) write. There are also a few unpublished items.

Charles Bukowski often thought about what writing was good for (and not) and which writers made it (and which did not). Writing was his occupation and trade. He did a lot of reading. He frequented libraries and read voraciously. Despite not finishing his college education he was familiar with the classics (verse, prose and drama) and the early Moderns, as…

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How Hausrecht provides as a cover for racism and discrimination in Berlin’s nightclubs

Looks like I have to write an entirely new article on what Berlin has turned into. From my vantage point, it is far uglier, far more chaotic and far more provincial (ironically) than I have ever remembered it. My final verdict on this city is that it is just a big, fat ghetto-slash-high school-slash-theme park-slash Altamont, attracting nothing but dysfunctional and deranged people acting out some weird personal fantasy they might have.

CADENCE CULTURE

As party-tourism to Berlin has intensified, so has the pressure on nightclubs to preserve the atmosphere and maintain the right mix of people inside of their clubs. Hausrecht, which translates to ´right of the house´ allows private spaces like clubs to decide on who gains access and who gets denied. This has caused for a sequence of complaints as people feel they aren’t declined on a random basis, but on basis of race or sexual orientation. I spoke with electronic music researcher Luis-Manuel Garcia, organizer of Pornceptual party, Chris Phillips and Celine Barry of the Anti Discriminatory Network Berlin.

Berlin’s nightlife is known for its hour long queues, difficult to get into clubs and notorious bouncers. Getting into these spaces, isn’t always as easy. From a legal perspective, clubs are allowed to deny people on four bases: age, behaviour in queues, capacity and for the sake of the ‘concept’…

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