“NATE”–Now available at Amazon

#Nate #BlackWriterInBerlin

Those of you who always wanted to read this book can now get it at Amazon, on Kindle.

A new paperback version is also in the making.

I felt compelled to reissue Nate because the issues it deals with have not only NOT gone away, but have become even more pertinent today than they were in the 1980s and 1990s. I put the finishing touches on this book in 1998, but the overall text was done by December of 1996. Nothing, as far as I can see, has really changed at all in the past two decades, unless it’s for the worse.

Everything that YouTube bloggers have been ranting and raving about these past few years–the gender wars between black men and women, so-called “alpha male” and “beta male” syndromes (particularly the latter, and especially concerning black men), coonery, thuggery, gang violence, the whole so-called “ratchet” mentality, etc. It also deals with the buffoonery that infests HBCUs, and I guess that my ridicule of black university life (represented in the novel by the now-notorious Coon State University) got underneath the skin of more than a few black readers of Nate–those who bothered to read it, that is.

Someone on AALBC.com who reviewed the book (who called himself “Thumper”) panned the book, calling it “used dishwater going down the drain.” Other black critics decried the lack of plot and took me to task for not creating “likable” characters. Ishmael Reed, Darryl Dickson-Carr, Darius James and many other writers and readers have thought otherwise.

Of course, there is no “plot” in the traditional, conventional sense. Nate is a picaresque novel. Most Black authors (American, that is) don’t write in a picaresque style, though it is the oldest and most traditional of novel styles. The style of writing was developed in Spain, with obvious roots in Arabic/Moorish literature. Don Quixote as well as Paul Beatty’s The Sellout are picaresque. Darius James’s Negrophobia is also a picaresque novel. It is a style of narrative in which the protagonist–usually a rascal like Don Quixote or a naif like Candide–stumbles from one ridiculous episode to the next; the story is generally told in a humorous, grotesque or satirical fashion.

Nate is all of these.

*

Originally published in 2006, this powerful, disturbing, award-winning novel chronicles the free-wheeling mishaps of one Nathan James Morris, a talented, ambitious middle-class black kid from Prince Georges County, Maryland. At 19, he has been expelled from Freedom College for alleged misconduct. He has few friends, aside from the parasitic Guy Sellers; and save for his scholarship’s chump change, even fewer dollars. Hurt, angry, and in desperate need of cash, he joins the Marines. “The road to manhood is paved with tanks and convoys!” he loudly boasts.

But he soon discovers that his own “road” has been paved with far more unpleasant things: whimsical officers, endless bomb attacks, disease, an unbelievable desolation. After the military, his “road” gets rockier….an unhappy reuniting with family, friends and fiancee….a kidnaping in Turkey ….violent confrontations with neo-Nazis and racist North Africans….his studies and miseries at C.S.U., America’s most prestigious black university, and his final days in a DC slum, as witness to (and participant in) the wild destruction of his older brother’s marriage, with a little help from the one “friend” who never seems to leave him be: Guy Sellers.

“Lewis is an original talent whose English cuts through a lot of contemporary BS like a butcher knife….It’s important that a powerful novel such as this surfaces at a time when the black lit. scene is being smothered by a lot of dumb frivolous chick-lit and down low scribbling. Anybody want to know where the kick-behind black male literary tradition of Himes, Wright, John A. Williams went? It’s alive and well in Berlin.”

–Ishmael Reed, author of JUICE! and Barack Obama and the Jim Crow Media: Return of the Nigger Breakers

“A brutally funny novel satirizing diverse subjects from American military misadventures, African-American cultural politics, to the chaos of contemporary American life. Like the protagonists of Nathaniel West’s The Day of the Locust or Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man, the eponymous hero, Nathan James Morris, is a classic picaro, a naive everyman and would-be artist whose foolhardiness shows us more about American life and the human condition than would seem possible in one novel.”

–Darryl Dickson-Carr, Associate professor of English at Southern Methodist University and author of The Columbia Guide to Contemporary African American Fiction

#Nate #BlackWriterInBerlin
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News Flash: Reactionary Trump-Supporting Hooker COON calls Black Girl “Ugly Black Monkey”

via Brazilian living in Canada calls acting couple’s black daughter a “monkey” with horrible hair; says she has also been a victim of racism

It doesn’t surprise me in the least. Of course, you don’t have to be light-skinned to be a “coon.” Technically I am “light-skinned” and a “half-breed” (or some people think) but I am not a coon by any stretch of the imagination. Paris Dennard, on the other hand, is a different kettle of fish.

As for this bitch–let’s do the math.

  1. Her real name is Dayane Alcantara Couto de Andrade, whatever the fuck that means, but she insists upon calling herself Day McCarthy–probably because she thinks she’s Colin Flaherty’s bastard child.
  2. She is a self-proclaimed “socialite.” (What part of “society” or what fucking club this ignorant cooness belongs to is in question. Is it the Dennard-Petersen club or the fucking Tequila-Maigualt society?)
  3. She wears a conk or a weave–in other words, what other negroes call a “hair-hat.”
  4. She has a boob job and no behind.
  5. Her skin has an unhealthy pallor to it, suggesting excessive use of skin-lightening creams.
  6. It looks like she’s shaven off half her nose in a misguided attempt to look “white” (or Irish-American)–ironically, it only makes her look even more like a monkey than she looked before.
  7. She loves Trump and probably masturbates to the motherfucker in private.
  8. She has a strange following on social media for some reason. It must be from guys who are overtly fond of Brazilian women, who think that every Brazilian woman is a hot piece of tail. (I can personally tell you that this is simply not true.)
  9. She was a Copacabana whore before fucking off to the States.
  10. The bitch was running a cathouse south of the Mason-Dixon line and was busted for it in 2015. (In Virginia, of all places. Figures.)
  11. She is a big fan of corny telenovelas, the scourge of Latin America. Two of her favorite actresses are (of course) Giovanna Ewbank (31) and Bruno Gagliasso, 35. Both of them are white, of course. But in spite of this they adopted an orphaned South African girl named Titi.
  12. In November 2016, Miss Andrade (Irish NOT!!) was outraged that the girl was so dark and African-looking–something she clearly hates about herself, which explains why she looks like a Charro wannabe–and so she took to social media and spat the following words–“I wanted to understand the false ones, the brown-nosers, who criticize me for my appearance, for not having blue eyes, straight hair and a beautiful, fine nose, as society imposes this kind of beauty. But they stay there on Bruno Gagliasso’s Instagram complimenting that macaca. A menina é preta, tem o cabelo horrível de pico de palha(The girl is black, she has horrible hay-tipped hair). And she has a nariz de preto (black nose), horrible, and the people say the girl is beautiful! You’re only kissing up to them because she’s adopted by celebrities. A daughter she is not. As if two white people, with light eyes, are going to have a black daughter with hay hair and a black nose. Ah, ridiculous people, huh?”

Ms. Ewbank and Mr. Gagliasso responded by pressing charges against “Ms. McCarthy”. “Good Sunday with LOVE and the purity of a child to everyone who has sent us messages about what happened, racism is a crime, and we are already taking due steps before the law. Thank you,” wrote Ewbank.

Mr. Gagliasso upped the ante with a slapback, publishing a photo of Angela Davis with her quote, “In a racist society, it is not enough not to be racist, it is necessary to be anti-racist.”

day
A whorehouse madame in Henrico County, VA–where my family lives
AN AFTERWORD: COONS, COONS, COONS!!

So how would that explain my calling Ms. Andrade a “coon,” then?

Simple: she IS a coon–of the Portuguese kind.

Coons come in all shades, colors and nationalities. Even all races. Tila Tequila, who thinks she’s Viennese, is a Vietnamese coon. Jeanine Pirro, who thinks she’s Italian, is a Lebanese coon par excellence. Sean Hannity is an Irish coon–a lace-curtain Irish mick. The unfunny Andrew Dice Clay, like the late Andrew Breitbart or the Prime Minister of Israel, is a Jewish coon. The motherfucker who destroyed net neutrality in the United States is a coon of South Asian extraction. And we all know Milo is just one big right-wing homosexual minstrel show, all unto himself.

If the bitch (McCarthy) is reading this and finds herself “triggered” well then: fuck you and your mother, paper-bag coon. You get back what you put out.

So now she admits that she too is a Negro and that she herself has suffered from racist abuse, that they called her “Michael Jackson nose” and “black monkey”–which she claims, and is probably right, knowing the type of crowd she wishes to be a part of. “I also had a lot of bullying at school because I was poor because I was fat, because I was ugly, I always went to the police station and nobody listened to me,” she whines.

Yep–she’s a “victim.” I, too, was abused. #MeToo. That’s why I called you a monkey. The favorite alibi of self-hating darkies the world over¹. Aggression-frustration theory, you dig.

“I was born with this racist thought, and I think it should be talked about. Of course, this is something you can control and not speak. But, you think this, for me it’s the same thing, it’s still racism,” Andrade says.

But at the end of the day, dago, Titi looks better than you did when you were a girl, and will probably look a hell of a lot better than you do now when she grows up–providing Brazil will let her grow up.

titi

There are so many coons out there who are bojangling and bootlicking for ole massa that you can’t even count ’em all. There are local coons and national coons and there are international coons. I didn’t even want to talk about those shits today because I recently woke up from a nightmare involving coons–and of the female variety, who are among the worst.

We already know about male coons such as Jesse Lee Petersen, who thinks racism doesn’t exist, or Sheriff David Darkie Clarke, or that idiot who hosts ATLAH Worldwide–a coon so outrageous that I won’t even say his name. Vintage coons like Ken Hamblin, who made a name for himself in the late eighties by referring to black neighborhoods as “darktown,” or highly erudite and sophisticated coons like Shelby Steele and John McWhoreter, bless his wittle heart. Enough of these rear-guard shines.

Inter-racism among black women is something the mass media does not like to talk about, because the mass media is too busy hiring black female racists like Amber Phillips and Omarosa (another coon) and their ilk to speak on behalf of the entire black race. They are so lost they could not find their own ass with a Michelin map, but somehow they have been given the go-ahead to represent us. They don’t represent anything except the soiled bedsheets they left behind after their masters fucked them in the face.

They are everywhere, in lock-step with their male counterpart. To quote Ayi Kwei Armah, they are a “huckster caste with the mentality of pimps,” exceptionally uncreative and completely useless. They have appropriated all of our resources, all of our power and all of our money. The question is why do we (blacks) continue to take shit from these goddamned, god-forsaken COONS? Why don’t we just get rid of them?

daymaccarthy2_e251631bc6648c776f8216959d47e057f77c0f5a
Day McCarthy writes to her sweetheart in the Honky House. Verdict: COON!!!

¹I excuse myself for reasons stated above. Fuck you.

The Obscene Barbarism of Racist Libya, in Pictures

WARNING: Many of the pictures below are quite graphic and disturbing. These pictures were taken largely between 2011 and 2017. A few graphically show beheadings done by ISIS in 2015.

…and all of this was done with the indispensable aid of our dear ex-President Barack Obama, Hillary Clinton and Nicolas Sarkozy.

Until recently, however, African leaders haven’t done much more than wag their fingers at the barbarians in Libya. This crap has actually been going on since at least the year 2000, when ferocious anti-black rioting exploded throughout the country.

Today old fat wrinkled Madame Non-Fuck, better known as Shillary, is still nursing her wounds after having lost to the Orange Honky. Frankly she is better off being nowhere near the White House, seeing that her fucking fingerprints are all over this disaster.

Loyalist-Black-prisoner-in-Tawergha-Libya-video-by-Assomood

Screen_Shot_2015-02-16_at_5.11.10_AM

Bodies of soldiers believed to be loyal to Muammar Gaddafi lay on the ground in Abu Slim area in Tripoli

 

Libya3
A mass grave of Ethiopian Christians massacred by ISIS “rebel” psychopaths
c9673f563f2ff7f0494e02fe1dd5fd5f--lynching-strange-fruit
Compare this American lynching from Omaha, Nebraska in 1919….
Bodies of soldiers loyal to Muammar Gaddafi lie at Abu Slim area in Tripoli
….to this Libyan one of 2011. 

 

isis-ethiopian-christian-14

isis-ethiopian-christian-15.jpg

young_tourega_man_tortured_to_death_in_misurata_prison_2013

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And I would like to take this moment to thank our dear ex-president Obammy for making all of this insanity possible.

Announcement Concerning “Nate” Reissue

My award-winning novel of 2006, “Nate,” is still in the final stage of preparation. I’m designing a new cover for it (I don’t think the old one is adequate) and making corrections in the old text. And since I’m still struggling financially to keep afloat I have to bump the date of publication ahead to January 4, 2018.

Also note: I am preparing a series of essays to be published sometime in 2018 (an exact date has not been set) about the current state of affairs in Black America. It is not exactly a response to Ta-Nehisi Coates’s Between the World and Me because I have not read his book. From what I have heard about it, and from the few excerpts I have glimpsed of it, Coates’s book is not saying anything particularly groundbreaking. I have my own views on this subject, and as you know they are considerably less compromising than those of Ta-Nehisi Coates.

In the meantime here is another excerpt from “Nate” to whet your appetite.

********************

When I regained consciousness, I felt like I had been on a five-year acid trip. Life around me slowly took on some fearful shapes.

Well….they frightened me at first. Then they disgusted me: a big tent, a dirty floor, half-empty plastic water bottles, candy wrappers, scattered papers, a bunch of grimy backpacks and battered clothes, and, last but not least, the unwashed asses of six or seven men, all looking at me, and all hating me.

I wasn’t high; I knew I had woken up where I had always feared I would wake up: at the bottom of the world. Hadegouine, Numidia. The hot spot of America’s war against international terrorism. More Marines than gooks had lost their lives here. But we weren’t about to take their irons out of the fire. It was the eighties, Reagan was in power, America was back—and if anything, we had to prove it to the world. The 3lst Ostrogoths had trained for this mission for over ten months before they transferred me to the unit, all with a “recommendation” from that same vicious black bastard, whom I’d smirked at some months ago.

Of course, he was right; I didn’t so much as smile the whole time I was stuck there.

Shortly after my arrival, I tried to muster some sympathy from my fellow Marines by telling them what happened to me at Fort Jejune. They merely laughed in my face. Every night from then on, they joked about it in the cruelest way, usually where I could hear them. They sounded like obnoxious little schoolgirls.

We passed a number of months just sitting there, in the desert, talking about nothing—or, rather, THEY talked to EACH OTHER. Not to me. After several months drilling with them I let them know just what the fuck I felt about them, and they had grown as suspicious of me as the last unit had. Some actually thought I was insane. Well, I thought, at least that’s an improvement over the old situation: they may hate me, but at least they fear me. I can handle that.

Everybody was scared; they all knew that Death was at the lining of their assholes. The Royal Numidian Army (of King Ahmed) had been assigned to do our dirty work, but they were the most inept, undisciplined fools anyone had ever seen. And the Pakistanis working alongside them had their hands tied behind their backs. When our officers heard this, they exploded in rages that filtered down the ranks from general to major to lieutenant to sergeant to corporals to sorry, smelly us. All trust had broken down on all sides; all enthusiasm was dead. (Meanwhile, the other side, what with their shells and bullets growing louder and louder and popping and whizzing and kA-blooming through the night, seemed to have an infinite supply of ammo to burn. They made it impossible for you to sleep. I sat and waited and hopelessly twiddled my thumbs and clattered my teeth as the hours wound down.)

I heard we were headed for Adjrar, to indulge in a little “light guerrilla warfare,” as soon as the other units (U.S. and U.N.) cleared the way for us. We had a whole load of goodies and treats and tricks piled into trucks we planned to give the gooks to keep them happy. I peeped into one of these trucks just as they finished loading it; it was filled with nothing but—refuse. Whatever happened to the food? “They got enough Purina cat-chow, and besides, we ran out,” one soldier explained to me. “They shoot at us whether we feed them or not, no matter what side they’re on….it’s crazy, isn’t it?”

He was one of the few soldiers who even bothered to talk to me, and I didn’t even know his full name for several months. In fact I still didn’t know half my company’s names, no matter how often I’d heard them repeated, no matter how often I’d seen their arrogant, childish, grimy faces.

The worst of my fears came true after two absolutely sleepless nights, hearing the increasing chaos and contemplating my own death. The sergeant came in before five o’clock, hysterically whipping our asses to the strains of “Reville”. Sergeant Sanders: A big, loud, ugly ape from Edgeville, South Carolina by way of Chicago and Sing Sing, six foot five and medium-to-dark complexioned, with eyes as hard and cold as diamonds. “Up!” he screamed, “up! Up! Up! Up! Up! Get your asses the fuck up! Ten-shun! Ten-shun! Camel-coon time!—”

After standing up like robots, during which time he inspected the human meat to be roasted by the rebels (or “Camel-coons,” as we had to call them, or get thrown in the stockade and make penis-necklaces for the general’s wives), we got into uniform. We had to be quick, because because because because; we didn’t even have time to wash our asses, so we all smelled. I got into uniform with deathly, quaking motions, as if I was putting on my funeral suit, and preparing to step into a casket. I already saw myself dying, bleeding and totally helpless on some God-forsaken road….like the one we were eventually forced down, unpaved, muddy, filled with deep craters and oceans of quicksand. I barely knew where anything was, it was so dark; I seemed to be surrounded, yet utterly, despicably alone. Dead tired, I made my way with them as the sun began to break through the darkness; the only thing that kept me awake was the sound of enemy gunfire. It terrified me, as did the endless roar of the tanks—but after a few hours of the unnerving monotony, I ignored everything but the gunshots.

They had two kinds of tanks—brown for the Marines, and for the U.N., the white kind, with bold, black lettering on the sides. Their drivers were having a ball, knocking over palm trees and plowing through oases and huge, dark sand drifts that were as long and deep as canyons.  Something was wrong. I was sitting in one of these vehicles—a convoy called the “Black Bastard”—when I heard some guys groaning in disgust. The vehicles suddenly stopped, and some soldiers leaped out to see what was wrong. My body pulsed with anticipatory fear. When I finally got out of the convoy myself and saw what it was, I was so shocked, I nearly went blind. Some youth had been crushed flat under a tank. The soldiers said “rebels” did it, but they said it in such a strange way, so casual, and yet so embarrassed, I immediately knew they were lying. How on earth could anyone be so cold? Were these guys just so shocked that they had to laugh, or was this all a grandiose hallucination, brought on by my hunger and exhaustion? I didn’t want to know.

The hours drummed cheerlessly on. The further we made it down the road, the more corpses began showing up. They were not our victims; they were obviously those of the rebel army, but I was revolted nonetheless. Soon I was seeing so many of these ugly, gummy, blasted up things in the road that my mind, long accustomed to nude girls, now kept on relaying back to me faces half-shot away, bodies with no heads, no arms, no legs, sometimes fully intact with heads looking every which way, eyes opened, but mouth cracked as if in stupor….

Peeping through the mud brick walls of the villages, gathered about the doorways of their crumbling souks, were Numidian peasants. They watched us pass along the battered road beneath them. They saw us kicking ourselves in our own asses, our officers routinely abusing us, thrashing us, spitting on us, even threatening to kill us—and from what I could see, they were quite amused. They went about their business while we tried to impress them with our helicopters, airplanes, tanks, and our posturing, smelly asses, flexing muscles but really dying of the heat and exhaustion and aching feet and the hordes of mosquitoes which were so voracious that sometimes, if you listened carefully, the air sang with their shrieking wings.

The Numidians said nothing. After awhile, they didn’t even look our way; I guess they were thinking, “They all look alike to me”….

It was a real revelation. On T.V. they always seemed to be cheering at the sight of U.S. soldiers; we always saw swarms of them fighting, clawing each other savagely for food that these big-hearted, generous Americans had brought them. But the only thing I saw were these peasants just indifferently passing through—even with Marines stopping them, questioning them, searching them with hands raised. It was increasingly clear to me that we didn’t know what the fuck we were doing; it was also obvious that, even though no blood had been shed on our part, the Numidians had won the war. Just look at our outfit! Everybody hated each other—the honkies hated the niggers, who hated the spics, who hated both niggers and honkies, themselves included, but the Numidians?—They may have been frequently hungry, their homes non-existent, they may have been fighting each other and the ruthless Touraegs and Bedouin slave-runners and hash gangsters from the deserts, but they were working in one breath, in ways that we super-individualists couldn’t even do under pain of death. (Or, rather, they—I don’t even know what I mean when I say when I say “we,” because it wasn’t my war.)

The unit kept on listlessly marching through, till I could see the town for myself—or what was left of it, because the place was nothing more than a series of smoldering shells with their walls standing oddly erect, supported by seemingly nothing at all. Everything was gray and black, ashen earthenware—the colors of an air raid’s aftermath. The only things left to show that humans had lived here were a few pathetic shreds of clothing scattered about, along with some shards of pottery—but I didn’t look too hard. I didn’t want to see any more dead bodies. So we passed on to Ben-Ounif….

Ben-Ounif fascinated me. Not much had happened to this town, except that a bomb had landed in the local mosque and hadn’t exploded. The buildings looked odd, like enormous, bright-red beehives. Hemming this little molten town in was a huge, oblong, terra-cotta wall with about five or six openings at either end. Coming out of them, occasionally, were women, children and elders, in white turbans and long, flowing colorful robes loosely draped about their bodies. As I was passing idly up the road, I saw one of the peasants say something to another. That other peasant rushed back inside one of the odd-looking beehives for a few seconds and soon, very timidly, some of the fellaheen began gathering about the openings of the wall to watch us. Some climbed up on the wall, mostly children, who seemed to be making faces at us rather than cheering us on.

Had it not been for the pebbles some kids pitched at our procession, perhaps we would have never stopped. Perhaps: I don’t know. I understood that the guy leading our battalion, Lieutenant Malthusiano, was preoccupied with other things. He spent an inordinate amount of time inside his tank. And what with those strange groans that often came from it, one had to wonder about him. Not that the soldiers gave a damn. Most of them were already stoned out of their minds….

Meanwhile, the longer we paused, the more fellaheen (peasants) began gathering on the road.

Jugs of water balanced on their heads, clutching sticks, with bulging bellies and sealed lips and sullen stares, they faced our company. Their numbers quickly mushroomed. More people got up on the wall; they started nose-thumbing, just the way we Americans do. Once “Tank”—that’s what we called the lieutenant—saw the hold-up, he zipped up his pants and got out of the tank. He had very black curly hair that hadn’t been cut for weeks. He had a hooked nose, Dravidian mouth, thick eyebrows, and sunken eyes; olive-complexioned to begin with, his being in the sun so long made him look almost African. But, appearances notwithstanding, he spoke with a strange redneck drawl, didn’t like blacks, had a rebel flag tattooed to his left arm and an iron cross to his right—‘nuff said.

“Tank” insists he isn’t scared of all these hundreds of peasants. Of course not. War isn’t even on his mind. Case in point: every now and then, some graceful, lean, hard fellaha passes lazily through his field of vision, talking loudly in harsh, guttural, South Numidian dialect….“Tank” absentmindedly licks his lips.

“You know she wants it, they all do,” he barks, watching one girl’s arrogant buttocks mock him and the rest of us through a bright pink robe….“They’re whores, I can feel it. They’re not even Christians! Did y’all hear about it? No? Welllll….down here they don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus WE believe about not havin’ sex. Hell, no! This is a different world, folks….A different culture, so while we’re here we can do a little enjoyin’ of ourselves! Why not?

“You know something, boys,” he adds, louder, in his horrible New Orleans accent—he takes his hand off his crotch and turns to us….“You know something? With no men here, you’ll get so much pussy you’ll fuckin’ hate it. You’ll hate the shit. I ain’t lyin’, kid. Stick around. But in the meantime, stay on your goddamn guard, ‘cause these motherfuckers could hava lotta grenades up their fuckin’ robes.”

He sees another one pass, he starts to get hard. Unbeknownst to him, a banner, displayed by two young women gathered in the road and written in very crude French, read: “DON’T KIL NUMIDIAN PEPLE, WE LOV YU AMRICANS”. I didn’t know that until the funny-looking guy who’d spoken to me earlier mentioned it to somebody behind me. The other somebody sucked his teeth and laughed. “Shit,” “Tank” went on, he being what he was….“Who needs R & R with babes like this around? See….what I usually do is bribe ‘em. Yup. Throw ‘em a pair of Twinkies or something—they’ll eat fuckin’ anything….They’re likea buncha goddamn dogs. Then you ask for what you want—an’ you’ll get it. Trust me. Sometimes all you gotta do is hold your hand out….”

“Oh, Jesus,” snorted the funny-looking guy, “I don’t believe this.”

More and more villagers gathered up on the road. I noticed that they were actually sitting in front of the tanks, strategically placing their bodies in such a way that completely obstructed our movement. Sergeant Sanders popped his head out of his convoy and cursed. He could do nothing, because Malthusian was too busy trying to see what he could see through a small hole in the wall…. “Yeah? No, Sanders, don’t do anything yet, y’all keep cool, keep cool….”

“They got us completely blocked, lieutenant. Now what the fuck we gon’ do?”

“Lissen, motherfucker,” he casually snarled, still peeping….“I’M the one in charge of shit around here, so you just fuckin’—ouch—GODDAMMIT!!

And then this filthy beige covered jeep drives up towards us. The jeep stops. It’s Colonel Dachausky. We all salute the master when he opens his door, steps out and strides over to the scene, frowning, looking strangely befuddled. Tank is raving about the blood running from his eye. The whole left side of his face is red with blood; you can’t tell whether or not they really did poke his eye out, but the colonel…. “Lieutenant, what the hell’s all this?”

“I, I, uh, I dunno, sir—ouuuuuuuch!! I can’t see! My eye! My eye! Those nigger motherfuckers poked out my eye!—”

“This is crazy,” the colonel drooled, watching all of them in his haze….“Oh, I see what the hell’s the hold-up. You got all these goddamn gooks sitting every which way all over your mother-freakin’ convoys an’ tanks. Lieutenant, get the goddamn gooks off the tanks an’ let’s get movin’, shall we?”

“But I’m wounded! I’m wounded! I can’t—I don’t even know if I gotta eye anymore!” Tank cried.

“Well, you got one goddamn eye,” the Colonel snorted, coldly watching Tank cry bloody tears….“That’s good enough to keep. See, you’re gonna haveta use some damn diplomacy, lieutenant. Flex your brains….You know, if you have ‘em! Move ‘em with your bare hands! C’mon! What the hell’d they put you out here for, anyway?”

“Oh, God,” he sobbed….“Where’s a doctor when you need one? Medic! Medic! Medic!! I can’t see out my eye!!—”

Fuck your goddamn eye!” the Colonel suddenly screamed, up in his face—then snatched his face away and strode casually back to the jeep. He picked up his walkie-talkie and mumbled some shit I couldn’t hear, and then turned right around and sped back the other way clumsily through heaps of dirt, sand and battered road. Tank turned livid. He fumed, jerked his head around, as the blood dripped from his chin. He wiped it away, gagged, and strode over to Sanders in the convoy directly behind the Black Bastard and shrieked, “Fuck it! Fuck it! Let’s do it! Let’s kill these motherfuckers!” he shouts, trying to rile us up….“Fuck diplomacy!! Sanders, get ‘em ready—they’re gonna be fryin’ some gook ass tonight if I can help it. You see all these gooks blockin’ the road here? Run ‘em over! Kill ‘em! They’ve just insulted an American! How’d YOU like it if some goddamn nigger poked you in the eye with a stick? Huh?”

“I can’t even answer that,” the funny-looking guy snorted out loud in back of me; he sounded like a white beach bum, almost. “Hey, man,” he said, nudging me, “you think he heard what I said?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered, “what the hell are we supposed to be doing now, anyway?”

“You mean in this war?”

“No, just right now, with all these women and children out there. What the hell are we supposed to do now?”

“I have no fuckin’ idea, man,” he replied, shaking his head. “No idea.”

The both of us got down off the top of the “Black Bastard” and began to amble around as we talked. I finally learned his name: Marv Manchley, of Cincinnati. Like me, he was Private First Class, and, as it turned out, he despised the war. He admitted he only came into the service because he “needed the eggs”. He never cut his hair, and in fact was trying to make dreadlocks out of them. He wore rectangular-shaped spectacles perched at the end of his nose; he actually looked very much like a North Numidian with his Semitic features, except he was so brown-skinned. I joshed to him that if he kept on growing his hair like that, they would mistake him and have him killed. “Oh, no,” he snorted, “no way. I never take my uniform off, I just wouldn’t put myself in the position of being killed by these motherfuckers. That why you joined, too?”

“Me?”

“Yeah, ‘cause you don’t look like the Marine type at all,” he said. Tell me about it, I thought. “I kept on wondering why the fuck you were in this outfit if you couldn’t get along with anyone. But I’d watch it if I were you. Just about everybody here hates your fuckin’ guts, man.”

“Oh, I could tell,” I murmured, looking around at everybody standing about, waiting for their commanders to give them the signal to push the people away from the tanks. I mentioned something to Marv about it.  “I think we should go back,” he said, suddenly, “bad vibes, man.”

Then I asked, worried, “we’re not authorized to kill these people if it comes down to it, are we?”

“Oh, yeah, we are,” Marv blurted out, to my horror…. “Not that I’m doin’ it. I’m above that shit, man, that’s not me….”

“But what if they told you to?”

“I wouldn’t do it. I’d just push them, you know, to the side. But maybe they’ll give up an’ go home, looks like they’re tiring out—”

“But how can we just kill them?” I kept on asking, idiotically. “They’re not the rebels!”

“Well, they’re in the way,” Marv murmured, “that’s all I gotta say. But with that ‘Tank’ guy around, man—you know something’s gotta give. ‘Tank’ thinks he’s still in his fuckin’ New Orleans police uniform an’ shit. Or L.A.—wherever the fuck he was, I dunno. All I know is, you can expect just about anything from that motherfucker.”

“Even the kids?”

Sergeant Sanders saw us loitering about and angrily strode over towards us. I didn’t know what the fuck was his problem, for he began violently lunging out at me, screaming, “shut the fuck up, retard! Git your ass over here an’ line up with da restuf ‘em! C’mon! Get—” He pushes Marv roughly on the back. “You, too, hippie nigger! Get your goddamn asses in line or else!”

By this time, the scene was crazy. Marines would carefully remove the Arabs from underneath the tanks and shove them to the side of the road, but for every Arab they removed, another one quickly took his place. It happened, repeatedly, until Tank literally howled with rage. Major Lewison tried to reason with Tank….there was nothing else to be done, they had us swamped. Using “force” would send the wrong message to these people. But whatever Lewison thought about the effectiveness of non-violence, it most certainly wasn’t working for us. Whenever we got out the convoys to get them off the road, they would climb inside the vehicles and fuck around. One even swiped the keys to two jeeps; another expertly cut the wires to a humvee and rendered it worthless. Indeed, they were so obnoxious that I couldn’t be sure whom to hate or who to side with—they, or these asshole Marines….

Dachausky was hardly ever seen by any of us. Still, we already knew he was at the end of his rope. He really didn’t care anymore; it was as if he’d given up all hope of ever keeping this operation under wraps so the folks back home could think of this as being nothing, just a football game. He kept little round mirror shades over his eyes as he rode around in his jeep, making sure everything was in order, like the general manager of a restaurant dutifully inspecting his dishwashers and busboys. The sounds of occasional rockets and mortar in the distance didn’t faze this hardened veteran of the jungles of Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and the Dominican Republic; his expertise in dealing with unruly Ay-rabs in Beirut was the prime reason why he was picked to oversee this operation. This time, Dachausky came back to say he’d summoned some “help”. The “help” hurriedly arrived in an outdated green U.S. Army jeep, a tall, gaping, sickly-looking, gangly Northerner who reputedly spoke six languages and worked for King Ahmed’s hated intelligence department. His brilliant off-white silk djellaba was unbearably bright in the harsh African mid-day sun. He cocked his maroon fez on properly and stumbled out of his jeep into the dust, a comical fool. Marv and I mocked him as he was handed a megaphone.

Huge explosions rocked the earth beneath our boots.

More reinforcements quickly arrived, in strange wide helicopters that flapped right down a few yards away from us, their propellers blowing sand and grit up into our faces and hair and eyes.  I thought they were coming to take us to Adjrar so we could stop all this stupid-ass marching and bear wrestling, but as it happened, dozens of khaki-clad, pith-helmeted and very well-strapped soldiers rolled off them. I was surprised to find that most of them were coal-black. Marv told me it was the brutal 9th Battalion. The 9th Battalion got themselves together and began to take their positions, while the peasants, immediately catching sight of the helicopters, grew even more obstinate and swelled their numbers to what seemed like a thousand or more. The sickly-looking Arab came forward and directly faced the bidonville. With a surprisingly firm, almost vicious voice, he pleaded for the villagers to remove themselves. The fellaheen merely jeered and threw stones….I sucked in my breath watching the verbal see-sawing between the sickly man and the village elders; the way they were arguing so, it appeared an explosion was imminent. But I was not familiar with the Arab-African temperament and their joy of having a great argument over nothing, for I was puzzled to see how quickly their tempers flared and died. And that was that.

The elders, adjusting their turbans and flinging their robes about their shoulders, got their people out of the road. The sickly man had done it. We al let out our war cries of relief and reassembled our unit. I was struggling back on top of the tank when I saw three jokers perched on the terra-cotta wall. One of them nudged the other, and picked up a rock and threw it at Tank’s helmet. Tank jerked around with that one wild eye; he bit his lip….

“Who threw that?” he hissed.

Corporal Jerome Gates pointed to the wall where the three jokers had once been but were now gone. Instead, Tank saw a ten-year-old boy who wasn’t on the wall. He roughly seized the boy’s arm while the other Numidians were dispersing. He gave the boy a loud slap in the face with an open palm. When one of the Arabs looked, another Arab looked, and soon all were watching when Tank pushed the boy back over the wall. They all thought he was crazy….

“They can talk if they like,” he panted, his face disfigured by the blood-soaked bandage….“‘Cause the first punk who throws another rock is fuckin’ fried meat.” Then he cuts his eye at the dispersing Numidians. Two more rocks shot out the breaches in the wall and knock him upside his head again. Marv and I were suddenly overtaken with wild, uncontrollable laughter. I clutched my stomach and fell to the ground, looking about to see if Sanders was looking….instead, I saw Tank with his head raised just far enough for him to bark:

“Okay, let ‘er rip.”

I didn’t think he was serious, but when I saw those guns suddenly being raised at the wall, I saw there was no stopping it. It sounded at first like millions of extremely loud, malfunctioning lawnmowers. The blast of guns was deafening; the stench of smoke and grit hit my nostrils; the air was filled with screams. One by one, their heads shattered in gobs of grey and pink and red; their arms, intestines, livers, kidneys, lungs spattered the wall like sludge from a sewer. My head felt like I’d been in a disco for six hours….And then I looked back, at the hands pulling the triggers, and how those hands didn’t twitch once; not a one hesitated to grind ‘em all down to shit. And then the dust cleared, and there they were, all over the ground, all over the walls, about a hundred of them, men, women and children, elderly, dead or dying.

It didn’t even take ten minutes.

*

            When it was all over, I stood guard to make sure Bedouin thieves didn’t swipe the bodies to sell them on the black market to French universities. All along I was completely flabbergasted. Did they really have to kill all of them? What was the point in all that? I thought I was dreaming, that maybe it was a horrible coda to the joke I shared with Marv. Until I began handling the corpses. One guy’s brains slid out of an eggshell of a head that had its face intact. I dropped the body, stumbled blindly over to the “black bastard” and heaved up what seemed like everything I had ever eaten. I couldn’t go through with this shit; I had to run off. This was just totally crazy….

Ben-Ounif was in ruins; it looked like a big pile of dried clay chunks. And within them were these few people, limping, bleeding, pulling themselves up from the wreckage to face “reality”—the machine guns. The Marines laughed, or cracked jokes, or vomited, turning over bodies, cutting off the left ear of dozens of shattered heads. Those men who were still alive were being herded onto military trucks; once a name was read off a roll by an Arab soldier, the “guilty” party moved, his hands tied with plastic like a garbage bag, across the killing fields, where the Arab assistants rudely pushed him in. The women and children were forced onto a bus—the refugee bus. They will go to Adjrar, where they will forget about their village, and live in the “real world” where, deep down in the filthy basements and fetid tent cities made of plastic and swimming with garbage and excrement, they will become animals—just like the rest of us.

Excerpt from “Nate,” Back House Books, 2006.

On Chancellor Williams’s “Destruction of Black Civilization”

The late Chancellor Williams was no slouch when it came to researching African history. As he himself states near the beginning of his book, “(R)esearching African history is more tedious, laborious, and time-consuming than is true in other unsuppressed fields.” He is certainly right about that. Until very recently it was next to impossible to obtain substantial documents and data dealing with the history of sub-Saharan Africa. When “The Destruction of Black Civilization” appeared in 1971 the fabled libraries of Timbuktu were, in the minds of even the most ardent African scholars, largely still a fable. Unfortunately, his decades of thoroughgoing research in Africa, Europe and elsewhere had not amounted to much, if we have just this book to go on. The details in this meager book, generally speaking, and particularly in regards to Egypt and Sudan reveal nothing that one would not just as easily gleamed from other texts. About Ghana, Mali and Songhay he says precious little–in fact, all the information Dr. Williams provides about these three West African states could fill an article in the New Yorker. (There is, to be fair, invaluable, substantial, and much-needed information on the little-known Kingdom of Kuba.) However, in these instances–and much in line with his accounts of Egypt, Meroe, Axum and other kingdoms–the details are all overladen with heavy-handed rhetorical generalizing about “The Blacks” and, most especially, their fateful encounters with Europeans and Asiatics.

The gist of Williams’s generalizations is that a bunch of bloodsucking, homicidal ofays and gooks wrecked the African continent. Which, as nasty as it sounds, is quite true. No doubt about that. The crushing of Songhai at the hands of the Moroccans on March 13, 1591 (mirroring an earlier crushing of Ghana at the hands of the Almoravid Berbers in 1076) is a prime example, as was the Hyksos invasion of Egypt thousands of years earlier. And of course, one need only look at the mad scramble for Africa that took place after the Berlin Conference of 1885 (and let’s not make mention of both slave trades–the European and the Arab–the latter of which lasted far longer and took many more lives). So on one level, Williams is right about Eurasian homicidal mania towards Africa. Where he is wrong–for the most part, that is–is in deducing the intent of Eurasian destruction of Africa, at least before the arrival of the Portuguese.

Williams says (not suggests) that Black Africa was originally one big continent full of Black people who–at one magical, mythical point in its prehistory–all spoke one language and belonged to one tribe: the magical, mythical Black African tribe, who all saw, felt, ate, drank, copulated, lived and died as Blacks. On the one hand, that’s not earth-shattering news: 20,000 years ago, virtually every homo sapien on the planet was more or less still “African” in appearance, if not in language. Williams, on the other hand, was eager to assert that all these mythical Black Africans had “Black Consciousness” in the face of a white enemy waiting with sharpened knives outside the gates of Sinai–and that typical Black moral failings (divisiveness, pettiness, selfishness, greed, self-hatred, disrespect for centralized authority, and naivete in dealing with non-Blacks) led to its destruction.

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Ashanti house in Ghana

Another false assertion that he pushes in his little book is that Eurasia’s ancient rape of Africa was really done solely out of racist envy and spite, rather than desperate plunder by barbarous groups of non-Africans (who may not have been nearly as “white” as he imagined them to be) with meager resources and even less patience for the civilized graces of more established nations. The same fate that befell Egypt and Carthage also befell Mycenae, Elam, Sumeria, Sassanid Persia, Mohenjo-Daro, Ancient China, Ancient Vietnam (at the hands of China), and even Rome itself.  There is also the question of the desire of imperial conquest, which naturally drove China to quash and colonize Vietnam for over 1,000 years beginning in 111 BC; or the destruction of medieval Cambodia at the hands of the Siamese c. 1431. Lest anyone think this is entirely race-motivated, one need only research the destruction of Constantinople at the hands of the Venetians in the latter part of the 13th century: both parties were white Europeans, yet clearly despised each other for reasons that had nothing to do with skin color.

The same held true in Africa, whether North or South, east or west. It sounds cliched, but building an empire is much like making an omelette: one has to break some eggs in the process. Medieval Mali and Songhai, respectively, were about the size of the entire European continent. Yet neither empire was built by the consent of the peoples it subjugated–and no group of people, anywhere in the world, has ever really cottoned to the idea of being subjugated to another, whether in the form of vassalage (as was the case with much of Mali’s empire) or outright conquest (also true of Mali as well as Songhay, which were largely built on the ruins of Ghana and Susu). Indeed the very creation of Mali came about as a result of a crippled Mandinka, Sundiata Keita, who not only felt humiliated to be subject to the Sosso (an upstart kingdom which had encroached upon Mandinka land in its expansionist moves across West Africa)–but who, according to the national epic of Mali, was prophesied to be a great leader by the oppressed Mandinka. Mali’s national epic is essentially the story of a liberation struggle against an imperialist nation that was neither European nor Arab, and in human history prior to 1400 this is no anomaly.

The best I can say about “Destruction” is that it is superbly written. It would have made an excellent historical novel. As for straightforward history, the book is marred by false and romantic assumptions about African history. My point is not to argue whether or not the Ancient Egyptians were Africans, since most of the evidence gathered about them strongly suggests that they were of sub-Saharan origin. (Actually most of the period portraiture, mummies and DNA evidence speaks for itself.) My point is that in no period of pre-colonial African history did Africans have the kind of “black consciousness” that Dr. Williams so vehemently espouses, and with which he so vehemently lambastes Africans for lacking. “Black consciousness” (notwithstanding the revealing name KEMET) was almost entirely a product of an anti-colonial and anti-slavery sentiment that began long after the fall of Songhai in 1591.

Aside from the chapter dealing with the Bushongo of Central Africa, there is very little nuance anywhere to be found in The Destruction of African Civilization. This book, had it purported to deal with the myriad factors and fine details as to what caused the collapse of African civilization–should have been at least four times as long as it is. Of course, even today, it is extremely difficult to write cogently about sub-Saharan African history without filling in the gaps with conjecture and outright solipsism, so maybe one should at least give some credit to Dr. Williams in opening up a discussion on a subject which had been previously ignored. But that is not enough, for there is a more troubling issue at stake here.

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Pharaoh Menkaure, 4th Dynasty (Egypt)

Williams was naive enough to assume that pre-colonial Africans were actually infected with the profound self-loathing and depersonalization–what Dr. Du Bois rather politely called “double consciousness”–that Africans suffer today. He was even more naive in assuming that all black people everywhere were essentially the same in nature and outlook. Indeed, the last thing that Africans anywhere in the world need is yet another piece of work that reduces them down to a common denominator, however positive that denominator may appear to be. This alone should be enough for a half-way intelligent person to put the book down. What Dr. Williams says concerning Africa’s downfall could just as well apply to the Chinese downfall, the Arab downfall, the Roman downfall, the Byzantine downfall, the various downfalls of India, South East Asia, and naturally the total annihilation of Pre-Columbian America. Dr. Williams projects the anxieties of a mid-twentieth century Black American pan-Africanist back into Africa’s pre-colonial past, and as a result, THE DESTRUCTION OF BLACK CIVILIZATION should be taken with a cup of salt.

SHOW US THE MUMMIES!!

Johannes Krause, a paleogeneticist from the University of Tubingen, authored a study of 151 mummies found in a Northern Egyptian community at Abusir el-Meleq. According to this study, neither of the 151 mummies–which, admittedly, is not much to work with, considering that there are literally thousands of mummies in Egypt–contained any sub-Saharan DNA. “We didn’t find much sub-Saharan ancestry,” Dr. Krause put it, rather delicately. A “big surprise,” the Washington Post writer Ben Guarino wrote, but is it, really?

“Ancient Egyptians were closely related to people who lived along the eastern Mediterranean,” writes Mr. Guarino. “They also shared genetic material with residents of the Turkish peninsula at the time and Europe,” Guarino continued, blithely assuming that this community was representative of all Egyptians, including the substantial Nuban/Nubian population that also lived in Egypt at the time.

The study further suggests that modern Egyptians contain 20% sub-Saharan DNA which, according to Herr Krause und Kompanie, was of a relatively recent addition. Herr Krause suggests that the presence of sub-Saharan genes in modern Egyptians was largely due to the Arab slave trade, which is far from being a new hypothesis and was in fact touted by discredited Anglo-Saxonists such as James Henry Breasted¹, who once said (and with a straight face) that sub-Saharans had no history to speak of and were merely a race “fit to serve.” I’m not suggesting that Herr Krause believes this bullshit. It does, however, seem odd that he has not sufficiently questioned why this particular group of people, who had lived for millennia in Africa, nonetheless carried not a single DNA strain originating from sub-Saharan Africa. After all, Portuguese, Turks, Sicilians, Iranians, Greeks, and even Ashkenazim all carry at least 1.5% sub-Saharan DNA.

As the 19th century wore on, much of the philology of ancient Egyptian shifted to Germany, whose scholars applied their meticulous methods of research to the study of ancient Egyptian language. Finding many similarities in words and syntax between Egyptian and the Semitic languages, the Germans unhesitatingly proclaimed Egyptian to belong to this group. As a result, their leading Egyptologists — Eber, Erman and Brugsch — concluded that the impetus for Egyptian civilization itself came from a western Asiatic or Semitic source. Like others, they saw in the human figures on the Egyptian monuments — many colored a reddish-brown — evidence of a non-African “Mediterranean race.” Anthropologically speaking, no such race ever existed, but that did not trouble them overmuch and the term has remained in vogue to this day.

Charles S. Finch III, “The Black Roots of Egypt’s Glory,” Washington Post, October 11, 1987

I remain unconvinced that a bare handful of mummies from an ancient Levantine immigrant community² would represent the entirety of the Ancient Egyptian population, especially when it has been proven time and again that ancient Egyptian culture has very little connection–if at all–with Near Eastern culture. This latter fact is crucial. If Herr Krause can provide us with pictures of these mummies then we could get a clearer picture of just what it was that was “discovered.”  It seems that when it comes to dealing with Egypt–particularly when Europeans deal with it–all objectivity, and apparently all previous DNA tests and findings simply fly out the window. (Previously it was found, for example, that Ramses III held a genetic marker of E1b1b1a, which can be seen in West/Central African populations at a frequency of over 80%.) Furthermore, the facial characteristics of countless other mummies–to say nothing of contemporary representations of Egyptians by Egyptians–speak for themselves.

One has to be reminded of the fact that ancient Egypt was not a racially and ethnically homogenous society. Egypt was essentially multiracial, even if Africans made up the bulk of the population and even if the language and culture of Egyptians (who called themselves, coincidentally, kamiu, or blacks) were of African and not near-Eastern originWhites from the so-called Near East (represented here), brown folk from the Levant (here), blue-black folk from Nuba (I suspect it is “Nuba” rather than “Nubia” because the Nuba people still exist in South Sudan, and look remarkably like the people represented here), and the Egyptians lived side by side or, as could be suggested by the ancient community of Abusir el-Meleq, in their own cities. One also has to bear in mind that the expulsion of the Hyksos peoples did not happen all at one blow, and expulsions continued for centuries onward. Many, as the Abusir settlement suggests, never left at all. Whole families of East Mediterranean/Asiatic peoples settled in the Nile Delta in ancient times³; this is old news to Egyptologists. (And nor was there only one Hyksos invasion. Userkhaure-setepenre Setnakhte, father of Ramses III (himself of sub-Saharan origins, as was proven here), had more than his fair share of conflicts with the so-called Sea Peoples of the “Near East.”)

It is the smirking hubris of Euro-American anthropologists (like Krause) and the degenerate redneck scum dutifully responding with their own flatulent racism that is so infuriating. They would never think, for instance, to dig up a medieval Tatar settlement in Poland or Ukraine and come to such a hasty conclusion about Poles and Ukrainians being almost entirely Muslim Tatar.

  1. “On the south of the Northwest Quadrant lay the teeming black world of Africa, separated from the Great White Race by an impassable desert barrier . . . and unfitted by ages of tropical life for any effective intrusion among the White Race, the negro and negroid peoples remained without any influence on the development of early civilization . We may then exclude both of these external races [i.e., the great bulk of the world’s population] from any share in the origins or subsequent development [n.b.] of civilization.” 
  2. Ryholt, Kim S.B.. The Political Situation in Egypt during the Second Intermediate Period c.1800-1550 B.C., Museum Tuscalanum Press (1997) p.128.
  3. “…(a)ll sampled remains derive from this community in Middle Egypt and have been radiocarbon dated to the late New Kingdom to the Roman Period (cal. 1388 BCE–426 CE, Supplementary Data 1). In particular, we seek to determine if the inhabitants of this settlement were affected at the genetic level by foreign conquest and domination, especially during the Ptolemaic (332–30BCE) and Roman (30BCE–395CE) Periods.” Verena J. Schueneman, Alexander Peltzer, Beatrix Welte, W. Paul van Pelt, Martyna Molak, Chuan-Chao Wang, Anja Furtwängler, Christian Urban, Ella Reiter, Kay Nieselt, Barbara Teßmann, Michael Francken, Katerina Harvati, Wolfgang Haak, Stephan Schiffels & Johannes Krause, “Ancient Egyptian mummy genomes suggest an increase of Sub-Saharan African ancestry in post-Roman periods,” Nature.com, https://www.nature.com/articles/ncomms15694, May 30, 2017

Henry Miller, the Cops, and Keith Lamont Scott

“Months have passed since the incident and yet I can’t forget his face, his manner, his whole being. He’s a man, and I can say it calmly and soberly, whom I could kill in cold blood. I could shoot him down in the dark and go quietly about my business, as if I had just brushed a mosquito off my arm.

“He was unclean, unfit to associate with human kind, even with those misfits behind the bars. As long as I live I shall never forget that cruel, ash-grey face, those cold, beady man-hunter’s eyes. I hate him and all that he stands for. I hate him with an undying hatred. I would a thousand times rather be the most incorrigible convict than this hireling of those who are trying to maintain law and order. Law and order! Finally, when you see it staring at you through the barrel of a rifle, you know what it means. A bas puissance, justice, histoire! If society has to be protected by these inhuman monsters then to hell with society! If at the bottom of law and order there is only a man armed to the teeth, a man without a heart, without a conscience, then law and order are meaningless.”

–Henry Miller, “The Soul of Anesthesia,” The Air-Conditioned Nightmare.

*

Miller’s books are a grab-bag of sheer genius, sharp insight, German romantic bombast, and occasionally flat-out nonsense. Sometimes all four can manifest themselves on the same page, or even the same sentence. I have always been a fan of his works. Personally I take issue with his Orientalizing of blacks, Chinese, Jews, and others whom he idolizes as much as he trashes (well, that is Miller for you: he is, or was, a walking mass of contradictions). And you can have his romanticized view of the Old South, which comes perilously close to that reactionist old-school Agrarian crap–the kind of nonsense that Allen Tate and Company eulogized in I’ll Take My Stand (1929).

As a self-admitted “Brooklyn Boy,” I don’t think Miller ever truly understood what the South was all about, anymore than he truly understood Jews or African Americans or in particular the Chinese, whom he was overtly fond of extolling in long rhapsodic passages in his books. Miller was a first-generation German-American profoundly alienated from mainstream American culture. For Miller, the Others–whether artists like Kenneth Patchen, Beauford Delaney or Dr. Marion Souchon, or Jews (like Bezalel Schatz or his second wife, June Smerdt-Smith-Mansfield-Miller-Corbett), or blacks (like Duke Ellington, Delaney, DuBois and Armstrong)–were screens onto which he projected his own rage and disgust at Anglo-Celtic-Germanic America. Miller extols Patchen and Delany to tear down a philistine America. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, however: Anglo-America needed it. It still does. But all of this is beside the point.

I did not need Henry Miller to tell me anything about the brutality of American police, because I already know what American police are capable of. I posted the above quote because Miller’s sentiments about American law enforcement are precisely in alignment with my own. Miller’s disgust corroborates my own. Miller’s rejection of America’s phony sense of innocence regarding its treatment of criminals–not to mention the very society and culture that helps spawn these criminals–corroborates my own.

Keith Lamont Scott was not a criminal, but the cops in Charlotte-Mecklenburg wished to believe that he was. It’s an old, old story. Today the police in Charlotte have “confirmed” (not) that Keith Lamont Scott, who was killed on Tuesday, September 19th, actually did have a gun in his hands when they confronted him. Purportedly, the video footage (if one looks hard enough) shows that Mr. Scott was armed. According to Yahoo News:

Police say Scott was holding a handgun, which investigators recovered from an apartment complex in Charlotte, and posed a threat because he was not obeying police orders to remain in his vehicle and drop the weapon. An officer subsequently fired his gun, hitting Scott, who was later pronounced dead.

Scott’s family, however, said he was not armed and was holding a book while waiting for his son to be dropped off from school.

The officers were searching for a suspect who had an outstanding warrant, according to a police statement. Police said Scott was not the suspect officers sought.

Police have identified the officer involved in the shooting as Brentley Vinson, who has been employed with the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department since July 21, 2014, and is currently assigned to the metro division. He has been placed on paid administrative leave as the investigation continues, according to Putney.

Vinson was not wearing a body camera at the time, but the other officers who responded to the incident were.

My answer to all of this is simple. It does not matter if the late Mr. Scott was or was not carrying a gun in confrontation with the cops. I have not seen the footage. In my mind, it does not matter whether I see the footage or not. I am convinced that Mr. Scott would have been killed whether he was or was not armed. In that case he would have been better off taking one of those suited-up thugs with him to the other side.

There is really no point in going over this ground again. To quote the late, great James Baldwin, “it has been said, and said, and said; it has been heard and not heard.” It is well known that the American police, like the bulk of law enforcers the world over, simply do not, never have and never will have the interests of the average man or woman on their front burners. The cops may be human beings, but they serve the interests of beasts. The cops are in the streets of Charlotte, Washington, D.C., Houston, Baton Rouge, Baltimore, London, Paris, Harare, Mumbai, Istanbul and other urban cesspools to maintain what the elite of these respective nations has determined to be “order.”

This “order” can be spelled out in layman’s terms. We already know what it means. The order is a pyramid. We know that; it’s just that we are generally far at the bottom of the pyramid or, just perhaps, somewhere in the center, sandwiched between the big shits in the capstone and unwittingly putting more weight on those at the bottom of it. Those at the bottom are generally black, generally Africans, and carrying the stinking weight of the world. For them, life is often more unbearable than death; yet we wonder why so many of them resort to drugs or alcohol or kill each other in impotent rage, filled with anger that they feel they can’t take out on a cop, let alone an Elite. For the elites, life is generally light, airy, whimsical, full of humor and goofy things; that Hollywood actor is always full of gags if he’s not full of drugs.

But there is a difference. Mister Mega-Star takes drugs because it’s fashionable, not because he can’t deal with the struggle to feed himself, let alone his family. He can live wherever he wishes; he can have the sex partner or car of his choice, and show up wherever in the world he feels like in the blink of an eye. Hell, he can buy an island! If he feels miserable, it’s his own undoing, not that of society, since he IS society: his misery is simply an existential hangover, a feeling of emptiness, a crisis of conscience after being confronted with the cold reality of his fake, shallow lifestyle: Jay Gatsby multiplied by a thousand.

Mister Gatsby has several McMansions at his disposal; the poor darkie is lucky to have a room in a flophouse. Mister Gatsby is a gourmand who enjoys dining and stuffing himself until he bursts; the poor darkie who does the same in a fast food joint is a glutton. Mister Gatsby “collects” things but that blue-collar darkie is just wasting his money buying sneakers. Mister Gatsby has super-models waiting on him hand and foot, ready to sacrifice whatever radical feminist sentiments they may hold dear at a moment’s notice. The poor darkie, or wetback, or gook, who does the same, is “promiscuous,” not a “playboy.” His woman is a “skank” and a “hoodrat.” If he has no status within his community he has to content himself with his imagination; outside of his head, people flee from him in horror. He uses his right hand, or pretends he is gay; every day you see him haunting peep show booths and adult book stores, smelling like a goat and pawing over young men on buses and subways.  The entire value system of the society is determined strictly by color, even more so than class–which explains why an outrageous elite snob like Bill Cosby can have his reputation irreparably damaged yet Roman Polanski, Woody Allen or even Ed Gein and Charles Manson can be begrudgingly admired as “outlaws.”

Lousy food, lousy education, shitty housing, filthy streets, dysfunctional families, high unemployment or underemployment, tainted water, unclean air, a staggering murder rate, an out-of-control drug trade–not to mention the proliferation of alcohol establishments and shady “store-front” churches that no one likes to talk about: this is the world of the poor darkie. (The last two are just part of an underground economy in the black ghettos that has existed for literally centuries; again, nobody likes to talk about it.) This world is not “Africa” or “Ape-frica”: it is simply the dirty end of the American cloth, the one Uncle Sam uses to wipe his ass with. This “order” exists all over the world in varying degrees of severity. Not all of the ghettos are “black,” of course–sometimes they are white–but they might as well be: “black” is not a race, it’s a condition, as well as a state of mind. The overwhelming majority of the elites are on the precise opposite end of the color/caste spectrum, even if a few happen to be blacker than my wallet.

In other words, the very existence of cops is to protect Mister Gatsby from the poor darkie.

So in re-reading the above statement by Henry Miller, I am willing to absolve any one in those Benighted States who deems it necessary to carry a gun to defend himself against the cops. My heart does not in any way bleed for a cop shot in the head by some random citizen. Maybe I’m wrong on this score; maybe a murdered cop can be a “good guy.” But we all know that these “good cops” have usually toed the thin blue line of silence and complicity and kept their goddamned mouths shut as to the large number of domestic terrorists* among their ranks. Moreover, the police in America (and elsewhere) have made it perfectly clear that they see black people as moving targets. And seeing how they treat Native Americans on a regular basis, these cops still see themselves as a bunch of gun-toting cowboys–settlers, in other words. White, European settlers on red land.

We Afro-Americans know more than most that the cops are not our “buddies.” They are nobody’s friend, in spite of a few shining examples of cops who are caught doing some wonderful, charming things like buying ice cream for kids, or leading prayers, or partying–all caught on video camera to show the human side of an overwhelmingly oppressive force. Personally, I could fucking care less. A storm-trooper is a storm-trooper, even if he is doing the Charleston or the Suzy-Q. A nazi is a nazi, no matter if he reads my books or digs my paintings or my music. That nazi does not cease to be a nazi even if he takes off his uniform. He has to drop not only the Nazi ideology but the emotional and irrational racialism that made him put on the uniform in the first place.

There are many idiots, even avowed “liberals,” even Blacks, who still insist that in spite of the rapidly mounting evidence of police corruption and brutality, that The Law is The Law. It is not possible to tell these idiots that their forefathers spoke those exact same words at the height of Southern Jim Crow or even during slavery itself, or that Hitler’s, Stalin’s and Mao’s stooges operated precisely upon this same principle. No, sir. The Law is NOT The Law when it is 1) written by greedy psychopaths for the benefit of greedy psychopaths; 2) reinforced by murderous thugs. The Law is not Holy Writ. When the two situations above mutually manifest themselves within a given society, “The Law” has lost all moral authority–in which case, there has to be a new Law. But before there can be a New Law there must be a new and more just order. Until that time, citizens are obliged to defend themselves–even if violently–against the current socio-political Mafia that calls itself the New World Order.

*

“He had paid for his crimes in full, that is my belief,” writes Henry Miller. “If he should commit fresh ones I would blame it on the police, on the lawmakers, on the educators, on the clergy, on all those who believe in punishment, who refuse to help a man when he is down or try to understand him when in impotent rage he turns against the world. It doesn’t matter to me what crimes are chalked up against Clausen; our crimes, all of us who are on the outside, who go off scott-free, are greater. If we did not actually force him to become a criminal we most certainly helped him to remain one. And in speaking of Bud Clausen I am speaking for the great majority of men and women who suffered the same fate; I am speaking for all those to come, who will follow in his foot-steps and who have no redress until we on the outside become more enlightened and more humane.”

Thanks, Henry.

 

*It has been found that a disproportionate number of neo-Nazis and closet Klan members have also infiltrated America’s police, as well as America’s military (or “killitary,” to be more accurate). 

On the Unrelenting Horror that is the Third World

The so-called “Third World” is the biggest carrier of the disease of White Imperialism; in fact all of the sicknesses and taints of European thought and values, all of their lies, ignorance and stupidity, are magnified a hundred-fold in the so-called Third World. Third World does not connote anything positive. Third World is a by-word for everything wrong in the Universe.

The so-called Third World is obsessed with keeping alive all the old values of Queen Victoria, King Leopold, Cecil Rhodes, Woodrow Wilson, Teddy Roosevelt and other imperialist scum while in the West, young whites are increasingly rejecting these same rotten values. Therefore the invasion of the West by uneducated and misguided refugees does not represent a positive browning of Europe; it does not represent any kind of “de-honkification”; if anything it is, ironically, a re-honkification of the Western World for reasons stated above. The refugee, in some respects, is even more of a white man than the contemporary European, depending upon his class and educational status. The refugee—to say nothing of the African, Arab and Asian elite—maintains white, honky values at their purest and most racist, because he or she has either not been properly educated, or the education they have received is generally Westernized, or—most likely—the minds of too many of these refugees have already been contaminated with bad Western ideas and values. When they are educated, it is invariably a cracker education since the so-called Third World has not even attempted to revolutionize its own educational systems; they have not even thought about creating entirely new and improved systems of education that may rival or even surpass Western systems.

The task of the Third World, upon liberation from Western Colonialism, was to build an entirely new set of civilizations–NOT to serve as vassal states, or appendices or apprentices to the rotten white First World. The task of Africa, Asia, and Latin America was to create a viable alternative to Western Civilization. Instead what we got was Europe on steroids, but in blackface–and still more or less owned by Europe and/or America. What we got was more of the same white, honky bullshit, but dressed up to look “African” or “African-American” or “Brazilian” or “Indian” or “Nigerian” or “Vietnamese” or “Chinese” or even “Romanian” (if you can call Romania Third World, which it practically is in many respects).

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The end result of a Saudi bombing in Yemen, 2016

Please note: Nigger and Honky are two flip sides of the same coin, and always have been. Scratch a nigger and you will always find a honky bleeding.

Is it any surprise that the Third World is completely fucked, and will continue to collapse just as the First World continues its own implosion? This author is not. He has not seen it all but he would naturally assume that the so-called “Third World” would belly up when the West bellies up, because Third Worlders suffer from a horrible dependency complex. The election of either Trump or Hillary will essentially spell the end of the West as we know it, as the US is the leader of the alleged “Free World” (free for those who can afford it, of course). And since your average Third World big shit lacks ideas of his own, we should expect the Third World to ape America once again. They always do, and without fail. Every single US-influenced nation will probably take Trump’s lead and elect a lunatic dictator.

If this happens, the bulk of the blame for the ensuing Armageddon must naturally go to the Third World. Because they represent the lion’s share of humanity; because their nations are in desperate need of retooling in every conceivable area, they hold the responsibility of reshaping world civilization; they hold the responsibility of holding the greedy and war-profiteering capitalist West in check. Their primary responsibility is to THEIR OWN PEOPLE.

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End result of a Muslim jihad in Thailand, 2008

Instead, they have repeatedly shirked this responsibility and served as hand-maidens, butlers, shoe-shine boys and prostitutes to Europe and America, often literally: Morocco, Tunisia, Brazil, DR, Kenya, Thailand, Indonesia and countless other so-called “Third World” nations are nothing but cheap brothels for the Developed World.

Morally speaking, these people are arguably worse than the average European or White American. The bulk of the blame for their moral degeneracy, naturally, must be placed on the shoulders of the Third World middle-classes and elites, who (with few exceptions) are the nastiest and most disgusting human beings ever to walk planet earth. They already have their own Hitlers; they have yet to start a World War. Unfortunately, that possibility cannot be ruled out, as nobody in the world seems to have the balls to try and stop them. The Indonesian elite, the Malay elite, the Rwandan elite, Congolese elite, Tunisian elite, Libyan elite, Egyptian elite, Nigerian elite, Chinese elite, Afghani elite and the Brazilian elite (just to cite a few of these respective horrors) can’t be criticized or exposed.

Of course not. There is no genuine intellectual tradition among these elites, short of sodomizing scholars, or baking students in ovens or simply forcing intellectuals into exile, into isolation in the West. Many of these intellectuals are themselves fraudulent, of course.

In the end we don’t have a new world, we don’t have a new civilization or any new way of thinking; just a bunch of ugly, dirty cities that look like a bunch of rotting projects; just illiteracy, disease, rudeness, vulgar tribalism, insanity, war, open sewers clogged with shit, rotting carcasses and flies. We have a return to feudalism and the bloodthirsty spirit of Neanderthal Man in blackface. The white man loves it, because it serves to make him look far more civilized and cultivated than he actually is. Every second the white racist whines about niggers and gooks but that is really just a part of the fun: dim-witted coonery and monkeyshines has always been a hot-ticket item for fat Western tourists.

The next great revolution should not be against the West, believe it or not: it should be against that stinking monstrosity the so-called “Third World,” the West’s loathsome half-castes; the half-Westerners who do the white man’s dirty work and who (as we should see) are indispensable to the success of the Western imperial adventure. For every redneck singing “Dixie” there are a hundred niggers, gooks and spics providing the back-up harmonies. They think the redneck is God. Without these spineless bastards, white supremacy would be defeated in a matter of months.

Cry, the Benighted Country: No More Gifts or, “Which Side are the Savages on?”

“This letter is a gift for you. Bear in mind, though, that some gifts can be heavy to bear. You don’t have to accept it; there is no obligation. I give it freely, believing that many of you will throw the gift back in my face, saying that I wrongly accuse you, that I am too sensitive, that I’m a race hustler, and that I blame white people (you) for everything.” George Yancy, “Dear White America,” New York Times, Dec. 24, 2015

I’m sorry, but statements like the above make my eyes hurt. I see exactly what the author intended in writing his open letter to White America. What I don’t understand is why he felt he had to write it.

Between this letter and the massive wave of police terror afflicting black and brown (and, apparently, young white) people in the United States, absolutely nothing is new. The only thing that has surprised me is the speed with which the scales have fallen from our eyes concerning America these past two years. In spite of a black President, in spite of the enormous contributions that African Americans have offered to those United States, we are still considered somehow inferior, unworthy of the same respect shown people who are not black. Even our own elite conspires to keep the bulk of us at the bottom of the world’s racial totem pole: by refusing to invest their hundreds of billions in poor black communities, by refusing to educate those of us who are semi-literate (or worse), house our homeless and keep the drugs off the streets and the gangsters from destroying the lives of our children. Better yet, our elite has never once given a thought to creating industries that can offer employment to millions of African Americans; instead they hoard their money somewhere on some little island in the Caribbean, and blow it on dope, hookers, fancy cars and McMansions. Meanwhile, everyday black people keep getting casually gunned down–if not by cops then certainly by thugs from within the community and racist scum from without.

I repeat: none of this is new, save for the cell phones recording it.

 

I have heard–and in some cases witnessed–horror stories involving the police wherever I’ve been in the United States. One of my older brothers, who is autistic, was brutally beaten by P.G.County Police about 20 years ago. My youngest brother, who doesn’t have a criminal record, was pulled over by the police for kicks and called “boy,” among other things. When I was a student at Howard University, I overheard a story about a young pregnant woman (in D.C.) who was body-slammed on the sidewalk by an irate rookie cop; the two drunks (both black) who were telling the tale were laughing about it. My mother spoke of an incident in the 80s in which a cop literally rode upon the back of a black “suspect” as one would ride a horse–in broad daylight. At Howard, the campus police could be as thuggish and corrupt as the police off-campus; in fact, campus police once casually brutalized a fellow student who turned out to be the son of Andrew Young. (As a side note: decades earlier, an uncle of mine was lynched in Depression-Era Florida by a mob of rednecks; my father witnessed it first-hand.)

I witnessed one loathsome incident back around 1992. It was directly in front of the Martin Luther King Memorial Library, ironically enough. There was a drunken black man being collared on the ground in front of the library being taunted and tortured by a black DC cop. I referenced this incident in my previous novel, “NATE,” published in 2006. The only people who had stopped to stare at the incident were blacks and an occasional white; everyone else kept passing by, I wrote, unmoved, unconcerned. It was true.

Many years later and I would find a cop in front of our door in Langley Park, Maryland, after my mother called to report a racist incident being perpetrated by our Latino neighbors. I recall talking to the cop and he appeared to be trying to say two things at once—the first thing being the words which could be heard and the second carefully couched whispers under his breath. I realized what the cop was telling me under his breath: fuck your mother. He said it more than once. It was a white cop with a Latino partner.

Naturally, I didn’t fall for the bait.

After that incident, and a number of others, I became convinced that a lot of the police brutality incidents were in fact carefully (and perhaps subtly) provoked by the officers themselves—they knowing full well that they are policing communities full of desperate, despairing, angry, divided, bitter people. And for sheer spite and a petty sense of their own omnipotence, these rogue cops continued to subtly and overtly push people around.

George Yancy wrote an article for the New York Times in December of 2015. The gist of the article was a plea—yet another—on the part of Black America to White America. After three centuries of such pleas on Black America it does not bear repeating what the gist of this plea is. We already know it, or should know it.

I have read many of your comments. I have even received some hate mail. In this letter, I ask you to look deep, to look into your souls with silence, to quiet that voice that will speak to you of your white “innocence.” So, as you read this letter, take a deep breath. Make a space for my voice in the deepest part of your psyche. Try to listen, to practice being silent. There are times when you must quiet your own voice to hear from or about those who suffer in ways that you do not.

In other words, it is the same old hoagie sandwich in a new wrapper. White America, I really am a human being. White America, accept me as your brother. For I really am your brother. I bleed like you. I eat, drink, vomit, defecate, urinate, copulate, walk, talk, sing, dance and even die like you. In fact, I may even be related to you.

The sad part about this plea is that—like countless other attempts on the part of black intellectuals to gain the ear of White America—it passed unnoticed, unheard. George Yancy shouted his self-effacing and mock-eloquent words into a massive white void where nothing of substance gets heard, anyway. It is hard to be heard above a sea of racial slurs, fat demagogues, ringtones and auto-tuned, Stepinfetchit gangsta rap.

What if I told you that I’m sexist? Well, I am. Yes. I said it and I mean just that. I have watched my male students squirm in their seats when I’ve asked them to identify and talk about their sexism. There are few men, I suspect, who would say that they are sexists, and even fewer would admit that their sexism actually oppresses women. Certainly not publicly, as I’ve just done. No taking it back now.

In my opinion, Mr. Yancy is demanding far more from White America than what it can possibly give. His plea is couched in abstraction and riddled with clueless idealism. I would assume that Mr. Yancy is not a stupid man, and not half as blind as he makes himself out to be. I say “blind,” because somehow Yancy conflates his sexist tendencies with the overwhelmingly oppressive power of a racist state which, as it turns out, is the most powerful nation on earth—a state that can literally erase him at the slightest whim, with not a tear shed, and with the flimsiest of alibis. Yancy confuses his having been “fed a poisonous diet of images that fragment women into mere body parts” with America’s massive adult entertainment industry, which actually provides such sexual malnourishment to hundreds of millions around the world.

Meanwhile, Michael Eric Dyson has a few choice words of his own–his own “gift” to White America, one could say–concerning America’s KKKiller KKKop Mania.

 You hold an entire population of Muslims accountable for the evil acts of a few. Yet you rarely muster the courage to put down your binoculars, and with them, your corrosive self-pity, and see what we see. You say religions and cultures breed violence stoked by the complicity of silence because peoples will not denounce the villains who act in their names.

Yet you do the same. In the aftermath of these deaths, you do not all condemn these cops; to do so, you would have to condemn the culture that produced them — the same culture that produced you. Condemning a culture is not inciting hate. That is very important. Yet black people will continue to die at the hands of cops as long as we deny that whiteness can be more important in explaining those cops’ behavior than anything else.

You cannot know how we secretly curse the cowardice of whites who know what I write is true, but dare not say it. Neither will your smug insistence that you are different — not like that ocean of unenlightened whites — satisfy us any longer. It makes the killings worse to know that your disapproval of them has spared your reputations and not our lives.

You do not know that after we get angry with you, we get even angrier with ourselves, because we don’t know how to make you stop, or how to make you care enough to stop those who pull the triggers. We do not know what to do now that sadness is compounded by more sadness.

Oh, well. Dyson says here what has been said countless times before, from Douglass to Baldwin to Ishmael Reed. The white majority response to such remarks has always been the same, their reprisals  only slightly softening with each passing decade. But from day one the overall intent of the white majority towards Blacks in the U.S. has been unwavering.

The intent is to keep the niggers corralled. Keep the niggers in their proper place. Keep the niggers from freaking out—or, to be more precise, to keep African Americans from fully recognizing that when they bleed, it is no different than when a European or a Euro-American bleeds; that like any other people on the planet, they have a right to their own outrage and moral indignation, and that they have the human right to redress and ultimately correct the injustices heaped upon them in any way they see fit.

But the African American is not an abstract concept that can be manipulated and defined by entertainment execs or U.S. senators or alt-right demagogues or Tom Wolfe. The African American is a human being, and demands to be recognized as a human being. The African American is not “different,” deep down. All we “want” is what everyone else wants—to live, no more or no less free as anyone else on this planet.

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“Which side are the savages on? Where is barbarism?”

If your average white American bled like the black American bled; if the average white American lived merely one week in the body of the average black American; if the average white American were forced to live just for five months as a Native American in the bowels of the Oglala Reservation, or a Puerto Rican in Spanish Harlem, or a Salvadoran in Langley Park, Maryland, the entire country—and not just white Americans—would be screaming for a bloody revolution. The rest of the country would fall in line with the rebellious white man without a second thought, because in America—even today—whatever any white man says is elevated far above what anyone else has to say. The white American’s views of reality are held as the laws of the universe, and this unfortunate fact has led hundreds of millions of people around the world to embrace the neo-coon Rap culture, to beat niggers and firebomb mosques, or to take a fat, ignorant thug like Trump seriously.

In fact, it took far less abuse from England to rouse the American colonists to revolt against the British crown. And it is considered not only just, but necessary, for a Ukrainian, or a Chinese, or a Romanian, or an Egyptian, or a Libyan to take up arms against a corrupt regime. Of course one must remember that the American mass media takes great care in defining precisely which Egyptians, or Romanians, or Libyans are actual “revolutionaries” and which ones are simply “terrorists”; and those of us who understand the U.S. media know damned well that all too often, those freedom fighters designated as “terrorists” are those who are fighting for interests not compatible with those of the U.S. Government, or U.S. economic interests.

“They require of me a song,” James Baldwin once said, “less to celebrate my captivity than to justify their own.”

How the Black Lives Matter Movement fits into this remains to be seen; judging by the rough treatment they receive at the hands of American police, and their demonization in the American mass media, one would think that the aims of BLM are precisely in opposition to those of the American State. Actually, in a real sense, they are: for the American State—judging by its bloody record alone—has never given serious consideration to the civil rights or the human rights of African Americans. The 13th, 14th and 15th amendments to the Constitution have been repeatedly violated in cases too numerous to mention here.

But I doubt this new movement’s ability to implement change in America. I have the gut feeling that BLM is essentially a controlled opposition, funded and directed by the same oppressive force it appears to confront. Maybe I’m wrong. But I have noticed a glaring difference between BLM’s reaction to the death of an African-American, no matter how socially dubious–and that of a non-black. When Dylan Noble, an unarmed, emotionally disturbed 19 year old white man, was casually killed on June 25th by Fresno, CA police, BLM was mum. They were equally silent when, in the previous week, six Latinos–Anthony Nunez, Fermin Vincent Valenzuela, Vinson Ramos, Melissa Ventura, Pedro Villanueva and Raul Saavedra-Vargas–were gunned down in cold blood by “America’s Finest.” Tactically, this is as mindbogglingly stupid as it is racially divisive. I’m no conspiracy theorist, but I feel that there is an ugly method in such madness from this new movement–if one can call it a movement.

Whether BLM will up the ante by striking at the heart of American racist oppression–that is, the American economy–remains to be seen. Their hearts appear to be in the right place. But at my age–and having seen a previous (and much milder) pro-black surge in the late eighties to early nineties–I know that these kids are barely making a scratch upon the behemoth of racist oppression in the United States. The “Black Lives Matter” movement is howling into that same white void–the void of white noise–that Dr. Yancy and Dr. Dyson shouted into, and with the same result: stasis.

*

Black America has given enough “gifts” to White America. Pick virtually any era and one can find such “gifts” in abundance. Our own bare, black asses were “gifts” from Africa, by which both Northern and Southern slave-owners used to build the very foundations of the American metropolis; indeed, much of the White House and the Capitol was built by slave labor. (And let’s not mention Crispus Attucks and Benjamin Banneker.) In the 1890s, at the beginning of the “Nadir” of race relations in the United States, Americans were given the gift of Ragtime—the first truly American musical art form. (Naturally, Native Americans mght dispute this, with good reason.) For decades after that the “gifts” came and went: Jazz (via King Oliver, Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Bessie Smith, Lester Young, Charlie Parker, Sonny Rollins, etc.), The Negro Renaissance (via Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Alain Locke, W.E.B. DuBois and too many other names to mention here), and innumerable inventions such as the golf-tee, the light-bulb filament, the ironing board, the gas mask, mobile blood banks, the internet, the cotton gin, ice cream, the potato chip, and food which was actually edible and a way of speaking English that didn’t stink of England. And a new way of comprehending reality–particularly among black intellectuals–that offered a spiritual alternative to the colonial cultures imposed upon the rest of the world by Europe. Hip-hop was but one of the manifestations of this new spiritual reality.

I, myself, and many of my artist friends who are black, have offered our own gifts to America; some of us have pleaded and continue to plead with white America to recognize our humanity. I, for one, never bothered and will never bother to plead my humanity to a group of people who, collectively speaking, always thought of me and my life as a bad joke. I personally don’t see the point of giving anything to such a people. America, at this stage in history, is not worth the trouble. It persistently demands of Black America that we “like” them. Unfortunately, in America these days, there doesn’t seem to be very much to like. I don’t need to waste my time tallying a laundry list of America’s ills, since the reader can find these details elsewhere, and in abundance.

America is not the center of the Universe. There are certainly other nations on earth where a creative black person can apply his or her genius, talent and drive. White America imagines that we have no memories and no history; they are wrong. They have almost always been wrong about the world, and most particularly about their own countrymen. They have never known us, anymore than they have known themselves, or anybody else on earth. We already know what our past gift-bearers have gotten in return for their “love” of America.

No: it’s too late. Worse, actually: it’s over. Done.

*

When Frederick Douglass declared in his Fourth of July speech that the crimes committed against black Americans* would “disgrace a nation of savages,” he was not being hyperbolic, but stating a simple fact. The worst crime committed by these white American savages has not, ironically, been these countless lynchings, beatings, burnings, brandings, castrations, rapes, nor scorched-earth pogroms such as Wounded Knee or Elaine, Arkansas (where up to 600 blacks were butchered in 1919). It has been the outright insistence that the African American—particularly the African American—be “happy” in the face of such systematic dehumanization.

“They require of me a song,” James Baldwin once said, “less to celebrate my captivity than to justify their own.” The African American was told to smile when getting raped and to tap-dance after being castrated; and to add insult to injury, the narratives of such sickening racist brutality were either denied outright, dismissed as “paranoia” or, still worse, carefully re-shaped to appear as comedy. It makes one ask the question that Jean-Paul Sartre asked, in his well-known preface to The Wretched of the Earth, “which side are the savages on?”

 

*Douglass could have just as well mentioned Native Americans, or the Chinese or even the Irish.

Ancient Egypt and Africans: Enough Already!!

“the whites are the implacable foe, the traditional and everlasting enemy of the Blacks’. . . The necessary re-education of Blacks and a possible solution of racial crises can begin, strangely enough, only when Blacks fully realize this central fact in their lives: The white man is their Bitter Enemy. For this is not the ranting of wild-eyed militancy, but the calm and unmistakable verdict of several thousand years of documented history.”

Chancellor Williams, The Destruction of Black Civilization, p.310

After fuming over some racist nonsense that an Egyptian (!!) shat on YouTube, I had to put this out–if only in lieu of putting my foot up this dumb motherfucker’s ass.

It seems that everybody and his brother is still pulling their hair out from the roots about the ethnic origins of the Ancient Egyptians. I had hoped this matter had been settled in the 1970s, but you can’t keep a good bunch of honky assholes down. Not for too long. They always need to have the last word on everything.

Why all the words, sweat, bile and tears wasted on bodies that haven’t breathed a breath of life in over 4,000 years? Because these bodies laid the fundamentals of our current civilization. That civilization is also currently rotting, for various reasons, but this is beside the point.

Or maybe it isn’t. The white, right-leaning intellectual would have us believe (usually inadvertently) that the rot in our current civilization is due to the unwanted presence of blacks in the halls of power, when (according to them) they should be in the fields, picking cotton or watermelons, or in the kitchen, frying chicken, or otherwise back in the jungle—where we supposedly belong. The liberation of the “blacks” resulted in the decay of learning, the decay of morals, the decay of music, of the cities, of the economy, of the environment, of the weather, of everything.

“Multiculturalism” is code-talk for niggers, or spics, or—in Europe—towelheads; specifically, “multiculturalism” is (to the neocons and neo-liberals) a heavy-handed attempt to force primitive peoples and their primitive, superficial cultures into the halls of a sophisticated and venerable Western civilization. The only thing they can do is piss all over the walls and shit on the floors of this great, white Parthenon. Schiller? What the hell do niggers know about him, anyway? Or Voltaire? Kant? Schopenhauer? Etc., etc.

But the presence of barbarians in the halls of western civilization could be better tolerated if these same barbarians did not try and rewrite the history of Western Civilization to suit “their” purposes. Of course, on close scrutiny, these black “barbarians” are merely attempting—often awkwardly—to set the historical record straight. Westerners are actually attempting to maintain an historical fantasy which deems them, with incredible arrogance and presumptuousness, the only Civilized.

From the Afrocentrists

Much of Afro-centrism is indeed silly. Chancellor Williams, the virtual Dean of Afrocentrists, has done a good deal of damage in regards to excavating and reassessing African history. His book, The Destruction of Black Civilization, is essentially a Nationalist polemic against Whitey. Nothing wrong with that, of course, if taken strictly at face value: the white man brought the bulk of his miseries upon himself–not least of all because he refuses to look at himself in the mirror; he refuses to ask himself whether or not there is anything about him that is worth liking. But that is beside the point. The point is that those among us who are responsible for writing our history as Africans are fundamentally incapable of objectivity of any sort. Hence, Professor Williams and his Destruction.

Williams’s anger at the white and Asiatic world was perfectly understandable. He was well-versed in virtually all aspects of African history and knew, like the open-minded among us, that Ancient Egypt was in fact an African civilization that originated in Africa, and that the people who made up that civilization were, of course, black Africans. But Egypt was also the first empire the world had ever seen, and like all empires it subjugated and attracted people from all over the known world at the time. This is what empires always do. And like all imperialists, the Egyptians naturally came to see themselves as being somehow “greater” than the people they subjugated, who subsequently began to be perceived as “lesser” folk.

In world history there have been utterly no exceptions, and this includes both so-called “Black Africa” (an invention of Arabs and Europeans) and “pre-Columbian America” (an invention of Euro-Americans).  The great Mali Empire was built upon the ruins of Ghana and the Soso Kingdom. The grander Songhai was carved from the weakening Mali State (which, ironically, outlasted Songhai by roughly a half-century). Songhai, like Mali, depended at the very least upon the semi-subjugation of numerous vassal states which, not long after this empire’s establishment, chafed under Songhai rulership. The Fall of Songhai in March 1591 had been, in reality, a long time in building. A handful of military miscalculations–such as the use of elephants to quash the invading Moroccan army–sealed the empires’ fate. But Afrocentrists such as Professor Williams would have us believe otherwise.

In The Destruction of African Civilization, Williams constructed his own fantasy of “black history,” the history of the African people, as being an eternal conflict between Africans and white outsiders. He has stated that the Africans were trusting and naïve saps who allowed Europeans, Arabs, Romans, etc., into their continent and were enslaved and exploited in return. This does not explain why Africa was the very last continent to resist European or Arab domination. It also does not explain why Arab domination of Africa was impossible without the Arab’s enlistment of African help. The Arab colonization of “Sub-Saharan Africa,” so-called, was extremely short-lived in the West and largely backed by the power of Europeans (namely, the Portuguese) in the East. Although well-written, Williams’s writings are simply slightly more sophisticated “ghetto scholarship,” seeing ancient Africa as a mere extension of mid-twentieth century Harlem.

Afrocentrism gets sillier when it attempts to claim certain Europeans, such as Beethoven, as Africans. Although Beethoven has been described as “swarthy” and having rather broad features this does not necessarily mean he was a mulatto. He may, in fact, have been a Romany/Gypsy, and his musical innovations rooted in Romany heritage.

Some Afrocentrists such as Runoko Rashidi have gone so far as to claim the Shang dynasty as “black.” How can we know they were indeed “Africans”? They may have been darker-complected than the Mongolian Han peoples, but not necessarily “black.” The Montagnards and Cambodians of the south (some of whom are visibly black) may be the descendants of the Shang people. “Shang,” according to some unverified sources, means dark-skinned. (But not necessarily “black” as in African black.) India, on the other hand, is clearly another case altogether: several unrelated anthropological studies clearly reveal that the Buddha was depicted as a “negro.”

Unquestionably the most obvious bit of foolishness from Afrocentrism comes from the notion that there was a “black empire” in the U.S. South thousands of years ago. There has been—unlike the obviously Negroid Pushkin or Alessandro De Medici, the blatantly Negroid Olmec heads, or blatantly Negroid pharaohs of Egypt or Buddha statues of Southeast Asia—absolutely no evidence to back up these wild claims, and appear to be lame attempts to link black Americans to the U.S. Southern soil.

From the Eurocentrists

But Afro-centrism is an attempt, as I said, to set the record straight. According to the “official” record, the Ancient Egyptians were in fact Caucasians who bore little or no relationship to the people of Sub Saharan Africa simply because, of course, they were not “negroes” or so-called “true Negroes.” Although the theory of the “true Negro” has been officially debunked, many historians and anthropologists write and speak as if it hasn’t. Many of these historians are in fact themselves Egyptians or even other Africans who are either incapable of drawing their own independent conclusions about the history of Africans or—as is usually the case of the Egyptians—so violently prejudiced against darker Africans, so ashamed of their own ethnic heritage, that they take great pains to disassociate themselves with anything “African”—African in their minds being Inky, Rastus, Al Jolson, and all the spearchuckers who tried to kill Tarzan.

However, there has never been a consideration for who or what exactly is the “true Mongolian” or who is the “true Caucasian”; apparently there have been several varieties of “Caucasians,” the most notable being those in India who founded the great civilizations of Mohenjo-Daro, and those in the Middle-East, so-called, who gave us Sumeria, Babylonia, Elam, and so on; and those in North Africa who gave us Phonecia, Carthage, and naturally, Ancient Egypt. It is tacitly assumed that the Caucasian is some sort of superior man who can in fact do anything (except, maybe, dance, fuck or eat watermelons), who has started everything, who has created “Our World.” According to a piece of Neo-Nazi drivel circulating around the web, “the white man has sailed the seven seas,” etc. These notions were called into question 40 and 50 years ago during that dreadful moment in history called The Sixties (when everything began to fall apart), but thanks to brilliant scholarship by enlightened minds such as Mary Lefkowitz and Dr. Zahi Hawss, things are once again being set right, in ways that reinforce our sense of superiority as white people.

The African “true negro,” on the other hand, is a pepper-corn haired, long-armed, narrow-hipped, flat-footed, thick-lipped creature—a little monkey who has really done nothing but hang from the trees until the European had the hindsight to remove him from these wretched conditions and put him into slavery, in the New World (so-called). Sure, the slavery was nasty, it was degrading and dehumanizing, and maybe a few hundred thousand “blacks” perished in the long, arduous trip across the Atlantic (the true number is closer to 85-150 million; for each of the 11-15 million Africans who are known to have arrived in America, 8-10 more did not). But there were benefits as well. The African learned to speak a civilized tongue—English, French, or Spanish—instead of babbling like a gorilla. He learned to wear clothes instead of a grass skirt. He learned to wipe his ass with toilet paper rather than using a banana leaf or his left hand. Moreover, he became a Christian. It was out of his exposure to the Christian faith that his heart-rending “spirituals” arose. From this, arose other forms of music that revealed to the white West (and subsequently to the world) his “natural” sense of rhythm, his innate “sensuality,” unequaled and unparalleled by any group of people in the world. It had come from Africa, of course; it had come from his gene pool.

Although this doesn’t exactly explain Timi Yuro, Dusty Springfield, Christian Rannenberg, Muggsy Spanier, Paul Butterfield, Jamie Lidell, Amy Winehouse, Bix Beiderbecke, or Benny Goodman—all of whom sing or play with obvious soul, and neither of whom were or are Africans.

So goes the official explanation of Africans or their place in history—as the servant, the buffoon, the hip cat, or the spear-chucking, oversexed jungle-bunny. These are the inventions of a fear-stricken, panicking white mind which may not actually conceive of itself as being “racist” in the classic sense, yet nevertheless feels its universe threatened on all sides. The threat comes from the “loony” Afrocentrics who dare to tamper with “The Truth” as this white Western mind sees it. This mind can be as liberal and broad as it wants, so long as its basic preconceptions are not threatened. The more “liberal” Western mind will dispense (publicly, anyway) with the spearchuckers stereotype, or at least grant it a degree of dignity which it does not need: a stereotype, after all, is a stereotype, a lie is a lie. The “noble savage” is a lie; Africa as a land of “soul” and “rhythm” and “dance,” bereft of human knowledge, is a lie. No matter how hard one clings to the obsequious rubbish of Africa’s alleged “friends” (such as Ryzyard Kapuczinski), they will never be made right.

There are attempts to patronize black students by offering them the examples of Mali and Songhay, or Benin, and usually in ways which separate their histories from the rest of humanity, the better to reduce their relevance. Images of rickety mud mosques and half-decayed buildings held up as examples of the “brilliance” of African architecture—assuming, of course, that these buildings were as half-decayed, crooked and rickety in 1411 as they are in 2011. Mali and Niger are extremely poor nations; they barely have the funds to maintain their manuscripts and buildings, which are in a sorry state. Today’s Mali mosques and today’s Timbuktu is no more reflective of their medieval state than today’s Roman forum, a collection of bits and pieces, reflects the way it used to look 1500 years ago.

To offer up the Great Wall of Zimbabwe as a prime example of “African” architecture is an insult. Naturally, it does not begin to compare to anything in the West, let alone the East, in terms of architectural design. This is just as stupid as offering up Stonehenge as a prime example of Western architecture, which no historian anywhere in the world would be so foolish to do. It is just as stupid as saying that Italian architecture is the same as Russian or German architecture because, after all, it is “European.” With African civilization or “culture” one can afford to be slapdash and casual, because, after all, it’s “African,” nothing important.

The notion of the non-existence of African history was a carefully constructed lie, already in full throttle by the time of the Berlin Conference of 1885. Note that the British conquerors did not bother taking any photographs (any known ones; the British Government may be keeping them under wraps) of the old Benin City they soon destroyed. There is one sketch, of a small section of the city, only.

The true flowering of African civilization was in the East rather than the West, just as the true flowering of European civilization lay in the west, rather than the East of Europe. And all anthropological evidence suggests that the flow of civilizing spirit was Northward from Africa—namely, from the Sudan and present-day Somalia—than the other way around. All this phrenology babble about the shape of ancient Egyptian skulls being akin to Nordics; all these absurd speculations about the shape of the pharaoh’s noses, or the color of their skins (were they light or dark?), or the texture of their hair, is belied by evidence that can be gleamed by recent (and relatively unbiased) research:

  1. “Recent work on skeletons and DNA suggests that the people who settled in the Nile valley, like all of humankind, came from somewhere south of the Sahara; they were not (as some nineteenth-century scholars had supposed) invaders from the North. See Bruce G. Trigger, “The Rise of Civilization in Egypt,” Cambridge History of Africa (Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1982), vol I, pp 489-90; S. O. Y. Keita, “Studies and Comments on Ancient Egyptian Biological Relationships,” History in Africa 20 (1993) 129-54. (Mary Lefkowitz (1997). Not Out of Africa: How Afrocentrism Became an Excuse to Teach Myth as History. Basic Books. pg 242) [/QB][/QUOTE]
  2.  “not surprisingly, the Egyptian skulls were not very distance from the Jebel Moya [a Neolithic site in the southern Sudan] skulls, but were much more distance from all others, including those from West Africa. Such a study suggests a closer genetic affinity between peoples in Egypt and the northern Sudan, which were close geographically and are known to have had considerable cultural contact throughout prehistory and pharaonic history… Clearly more analyses of the physical remains of ancient Egyptians need to be done using current techniques, such as those of Nancy Lovell at the University of Alberta is using in her work..” (Mary Lefkowitz)
  3. “There is now a sufficient body of evidence from modern studies of skeletal remains to indicate that the ancient Egyptians, especially southern Egyptians, exhibited physical characteristics that are within the range of variation for ancient and modern indigenous peoples of the Sahara and tropical Africa.. In general, the inhabitants of Upper Egypt and Nubia had the greatest biological affinity to people of the Sahara and more southerly areas.” (Nancy C. Lovell, ” Egyptians, physical anthropology of,” in Encyclopedia of the Archaeology of Ancient Egypt, ed. Kathryn A. Bard and Steven Blake Shubert, ( London and New York: Routledge, 1999) pp. 328-332)
  4. “The Nubian tribute-bearers are painted in two skin tones, black and dark brown. These tones do not necessarily represent actual skin tones in real life but may serve to distinguish each tribute-bearer from the next in a row in which the figures overlap. Alternatively, the brown-skinned people may be of Nubian origin, and the black-skinned ones may be farther south (Trigger 1978, 33). The shading of skin tones in Egyptian tomb paintings, which varies considerably, may not be a certain criterion for distinguishing race. Specific symbols of ethnic identity can also vary. Identifying race in Egyptian representational art, again, is difficult to do- probably because race (as opposed to ethnic affiliation, that is, Egyptians versus all non-Egyptians) was not a criterion for differentiation used by the ancient Egyptians… (Lefkowitz)
  5. “Overall, when the Egyptian crania are evaluated in a Near Eastern (Lachish) versus African (Kerma, Kebel Moya, Ashanti) context) the affinity is with the Africans. The Sudan and Palestine are the most appropriate comparative regions which would have ‘donated’ people, along with the Sahara and Maghreb. Archaeology validates looking to these regions for population flow (see Hassan 1988)… Egyptian groups showed less overall affinity to Palestinian and Byzantine remains than to other African series, especially Sudanese.” (Keita 1993)
  6. “When the unlikely relationships [Indian matches] and eliminated, the Egyptian series are more similar overall to other African series than to European or Near Eastern (Byzantine or Palestinian) series.” (Keita 1993)
  7. “Populations and cultures now found south of the desert roamed far to the north. The culture of Upper Egypt, which became dynastic Egyptian civilization, could fairly be called a Sudanese transplant.”(Egypt and Sub-Saharan Africa: Their Interaction. Encyclopedia of Precolonial Africa, by Joseph O. Vogel, AltaMira Press, Walnut Creek, California (1997), pp. 465-472 )
  8. “Analysis of crania is the traditional approach to assessing ancient population origins, relationships, and diversity. In studies based on anatomical traits and measurements of crania, similarities have been found between Nile Valley crania from 30,000, 20,000 and 12,000 years ago and various African remains from more recent times (see Thoma 1984; Brauer and Rimbach 1990; Angel and Kelley 1986; Keita 1993). Studies of crania from southern predynastic Egypt, from the formative period (4000-3100 B.C.), show them usually to be more similar to the crania of ancient Nubians, Kushites, Saharans, or modern groups from the Horn of Africa than to those of dynastic northern Egyptians or ancient or modern southern Europeans.”
  9. (S. O. Y and A.J. Boyce, “The Geographical Origins and Population Relationships of Early Ancient Egyptians”, in Egypt in Africa, Theodore Celenko (ed), Indiana University Press, 1996, pp. 20-33)
  10. “There is no archaeological, linguistic, or historical data which indicate a European or Asiatic invasion of, or migration to, the Nile Valley during First Dynasty times. Previous concepts about the origin of the First Dynasty Egyptians as being somehow external to the Nile Valley or less native are not supported by archaeology… In summary, the Abydos First Dynasty royal tomb contents reveal a notable craniometric heterogeneity. Southerners predominate. (Kieta, S. (1992) Further Studies of Crania From Ancient Northern Africa: An Analysis of Crania From First Dynasty Egyptian Tombs, Using Multiple Discriminant Functions. AMERICAN JOURNAL OF PHYSICAL ANTHROPOLOGY 87:245-254)”
  11. “The predominant craniometric pattern in the Abydos royal tombs is ‘southern’ (tropical African variant), and this is consistent with what would be expected based on the literature and other results (Keita, 1990). This pattern is seen in both group and unknown analyses… Archaeology and history seem to provide the most parsimonious explanation for the variation in the royal tombs at Abydos.. Tomb design suggests the presence of northerners in the south in late Nakada times (Hoffman, 1988) when the unification probably took place. Delta names are attached to some of the tombs at Abydos (Gardiner, 1961; Yurco, 1990, personal communication), thus perhaps supporting Petrie’s (1939) and Gardiner’s contention that north-south marriages were undertaken to legitimize the hegemony of the south. The courtiers of northern elites would have accompanied them.
  12. Given all of the above, it is probably not possible to view the Abydos royal tomb sample as representative of the general southern Upper Egyptian population of the time. Southern elites and/or their descendants eventually came to be buried in the north (Hoffman, 1988). Hence early Second Dynasty kings and Djoser (Dynasty 111) (Hayes, 1953) and his descendants are not buried in Abydos. Petrie (1939) states that the Third Dynasty, buried in the north, was of Sudanese origin, but southern Egypt is equally likely. This perhaps explains Harris and Weeks’ (1973) suggested findings of southern morphologies in some Old Kingdom Giza remains, also verified in portraiture (Drake, 1987). Further study would be required to ascertain trends in the general population of both regions. The strong Sudanese affinity noted in the unknown analyses may reflect the Nubian interactions with upper Egypt in predynastic times prior to Egyptian unification (Williams, 1980,1986)…” (S. Keita (1992) Further Studies of Crania From Ancient Northern Africa: An Analysis of Crania From First Dynasty Egyptian Tombs, Using Multiple Discriminant Functions. AMERICAN JOURNAL OF PHYSICAL ANTHROPOLOGY 87:245-254)
  13. “When the Elephantine results were added to a broader pooling of the physical characteristics drawn from a wide geographic region which includes Africa, the Mediterranean and the Near East quite strong affinities emerge between Elephantine and populations from Nubia, supporting a strong south-north cline. (Barry Kemp. (2006) Ancient Egypt: Anatomy of a Civilization. p. 54)
  14. “Distance analysis and factor analysis, based on Q-mode correlation coefficients, were applied to 23 craniofacial measurements in 1,802 recent and prehistoric crania from major geographical areas of the Old World. The major findings are as follows: 1) Australians show closer similarities to African populations than to Melanesians. 2) Recent Europeans align with East Asians, and early West Asians resemble Africans. 3) The Asian population complex with regional difference between northern and southern members is manifest. 4) Clinal variations of craniofacial features can be detected in the Afro-European region on the one hand, and Australasian and East Asian region on the other hand. 5) The craniofacial variations of major geographical groups are not necessarily consistent with their geographical distribution pattern. This may be a sign that the evolutionary divergence in craniofacial shape among recent populations of different geographical areas is of a highly limited degree. Taking all of these into account, a single origin for anatomically modern humans is the most parsimonious interpretation of the craniofacial variations presented in this study. (Hanihara T. Comparison of craniofacial features of major human groups. Am J Phys Anthropol. 1996 Mar;99(3):389-412.)
  15. “.. all their features can be found in several living populations of East Africa, like the Tutsi of Rwanda and Burundi, who are very dark skinned and differ greatly from Europeans in a number of body proportions.. There is every reason to believe that they are ancestral to the living ‘Elongated East Africans’. Neither of these populations, fossil and modern, should be considered to be closely related to the populations of Europe and western Asia.. In skin colour, the Tutsi are darker than the Hutu, in the reverse direction to that leading to the caucasoids. Lip thickness provides a similar case: on an average the lips of the Tutsi are thicker than those of the Hutu.” [Jean Hiernaux, The People of Africa (1975), pgs 42-43, 62-63)
  16. “In sub-Saharan Africa, many anthropological characters show a wide range of population means or frequencies. In some of them, the whole world range is covered in the sub-continent. Here live the shortest and the tallest human populations, the one with the highest and the one with the lowest nose, the one with the thickest and the one with the thinnest lips in the world. In this area, the range of the average nose widths covers 92 per cent of the world range: only a narrow range of extremely low means are absent from the African record. Means for head diameters cover about 80 per cent of the world range; 60 per cent is the corresponding value for a variable once cherished by physical anthropologists, the cephalic index, or ratio of the head width to head length expressed as a percentage…..”- Jean Hiernaux, “The People of Africa” 1975 p.53, 54
  17. “We also compare Egyptian body proportions to those of modern American Blacks and Whites… Long bone stature regression equations were then derived for each sex. Our results confirm that, although ancient Egyptians are closer in body proportion to modern American Blacks than they are to American Whites, proportions in Blacks and Egyptians are not identical… Intralimb indices are not significantly different between Egyptians and American Blacks. ..brachial indices are definitely more ‘African’… There is no evidence for significant variation in proportions among temporal or social groupings; thus, the new formulae may be broadly applicable to ancient Egyptian remains.” (“Stature estimation in ancient Egyptians: A new technique based on anatomical reconstruction of stature.” Michelle H. Raxter, Christopher B. Ruff, Ayman Azab, Moushira Erfan, Muhammad Soliman, Aly El-Sawaf, (Am J Phys Anthropol. 2008, Jun;136(2):147-55
  18. “However, Brace et al. (1993) find that a series of upper Egyptian/Nubian epipalaeolithic crania affiliate by cluster analysis with groups they designate “sub-Saharan African” or just simply “African” (from which they incorrectly exclude the Maghreb, Sudan, and the Horn of Africa), whereas post-Badarian southern predynastic and a late dynastic northern series (called “E” or Gizeh) cluster together, and secondarily with Europeans. In the primary cluster with the Egyptian groups are also remains representing populations from the ancient Sudan and recent Somalia. Brace et al. (1993) seemingly interpret these results as indicating a population relationship from Scandinavia to the Horn of Africa, although the mechanism for this is not clearly stated; they also state that the Egyptians had no relationship with sub-Saharan Africans, a group that they nearly treat (incorrectly) as monolithic, although sometimes seemingly including Somalia, which directly undermines aspects of their claims. Sub-Saharan Africa does not define/delimit authentic Africanity.” (S.O.Y. Keita. “Early Nile Valley Farmers from El-Badari: Aboriginals or “European” Agro-Nostratic Immigrants? Craniometric Affinities Considered With Other Data”. Journal of Black Studies, Vol. 36 No. 2, pp. 191-208 (2005)
  19. “The Mahalanobis D2 analysis uncovered close affinities between Nubians and Egyptians. Table 3 lists the Mahalanobis D2 distance matrix… In some cases, the statistics reveal that the Egyptian samples were more similar to Nubian samples than to other Egyptian samples (e.g. Gizeh and Hesa/Biga) and vice versa (e.g. Badari and Kerma, Naqada and Christian). These relationships are further depicted in the PCO plot (Fig. 2).
  20. The clustering of the Nubian and Egyptian samples together supports this paper’s hypothesis and demonstrates that there may be a close relationship between the two populations. This relationship is consistent with Berry and Berry (1972), among others, who noted a similarity between Nubians and Egyptians.
  21. Both mtDNA (Krings et al., 1999) and Y-Chromosome data (Hassan et al., 2008; Keita, 2005; Lucotte and Mercier, 2003) indicate that migrations, usually bidirectional, occurred along the Nile. Thus, the osteological material used in this analysis also supports the DNA evidence.
  22. On this basis, many have postulated that the Badarians are relatives to South African populations (Morant, 1935 G. Morant, A study of predynastic Egyptian skulls from Badari based on measurements taken by Miss BN Stoessiger and Professor DE Derry, Biometrika 27 (1935), pp. 293–309. Morant, 1935; Mukherjee et al., 1955; Irish and Konigsberg, 2007). The archaeological evidence points to this relationship as well. (Hassan, 1986) and (Hassan, 1988) noted similarities between Badarian pottery and the Neolithic Khartoum type, indicating an archaeological affinity among Badarians and Africans from more southern regions. Furthermore, like the Badarians, Naqada has also been classified with other African groups, namely the Teita (Crichton, 1996; Keita, 1990).
  23. Nutter (1958) noted affinities between the Badarian and Naqada samples, a feature that Strouhal (1971) attributed to their skulls possessing “Negroid” traits. Keita (1992), using craniometrics, discovered that the Badarian series is distinctly different from the later Egyptian series, a conclusion that is mostly confirmed here. In the current analysis, the Badari sample more closely clusters with the Naqada sample and the Kerma sample. However, it also groups with the later pooled sample from Dynasties XVIII–XXV.
  24. The reoccurring notation of Kerma affinities with Egyptian groups is not entirely surprising. Kerma was an integral part of the trade between Egypt and Nubia.
  25. However, the archaeological evidence actually showed slow change in form over time (Adams, 1977) and the biological evidence demonstrated a similar trend in the skeletal data (e.g. Godde, in press; Van Gerven et al., 1977). These conclusions negate the possibility of invasion or migration causing the shifts in time periods. The results in this study are consistent with prior work; the Meroites and X-Group cluster with the remaining Nubian population and are not differentiated.
  26. Gene flow may account for the homogeneity across these Nubian and Egyptian groups and is consistent with the biological diffusion precept. Small geographic distances between groups allow for the exchange of genes.
  27. The similarities uncovered by this study may be explained by another force, adaptation.. resemblance may be indicative of a common adaptation to a similar geographic location, rather than gene flow
  28. Egypt and Nubia have similar terrain and climate. Because of the similarity between and the overlapping of the two territories that would require similar adaptations to the environment, common adaptation cannot be discounted.
  29. Gene flow appears likely between the Egyptians and Nubians, although common adaptations to a similar environment may have also been a factor in their cranial similarities. This study does not rule out the possibility that in situ biological evolution occurred at other times not represented by the samples in this analysis. “– Godde K. (2009) An Examination of Nubian and Egyptian biological distances: Support for biological diffusion or in situ development? Homo. 2009;60(5):389-404.
  30. The analysis (also) found Rameses’ hair to be cymotrich or wavy, again a characteristic quite within the range of overall African or Nile valley physical and genetic diversity. A “pure” Nordic type of straight hair was thus not established for Rameses. Hence the notion of white Europeans or red-headed Caucasoids from other areas flowing into ancient Egypt to add hair variation is dubious. Inflows occurred during the Greek and Roman eras but reddish or brown hair is within the range of African variation. Genetic studies (Tishkoff 2009, 2000) show Africans have the highest diversity in the world. Skeletal/cranial studies confirm the pattern. Relethford (2001) shows that “.. methods for estimating regional diversity show sub-Saharan Africa to have the highest levels of phenotypic variation, consistent with many genetic studies.” (Relethford, John “Global Analysis of Regional Differences in Craniometric Diversity and Population Substructure”. Human Biology – Volume 73, Number 5, October 2001, pp. 629-636) Hanihara 2003 notes that [significant] “..intraregional diversity are present in Subsaharan Africans..” While ancient Egypt had gene flow in various eras, hair variations easily fall under this pattern of built-in, indigenous diversity, as well as the above noted cultural practice of using wigs with hair from different places obtained through trade.

Okay, iam(NOT!)egyptian. Okay, alt-righters. Okay, Dr. Haw-ass. Choke on that you fat motherfucker.