November, 2020: Kaf’s Toons is Back

Yes, they’re back–after two years of the artist (Kaf) scrambling around trying to find a stable place to get his head together and actually make these cartoons.

“Kaf” will try and keep these cartoons coming in on a regular basis. If they don’t come that means there’s trouble in keeping the money coming in and the artist is out hustling his ass to stay alive (or, like in 2019, living in a shithole called Green House Berlin, a so-called “artists’ commune” where virtually nothing gets done artistically, and fights, freakouts, overdoses, swindles, shitty orgies and the like are regular occurrences).

The ink drawing above is actually pretty old–about three years old, to be exact. But it is still 100% relevant. While a civil war is brewing on the American home front, meanwhile actual physical wars (started by the US) are still going on abroad. People are still getting killed, no matter what the media likes to pretend…

“At Home Abroad”

Copyright 2020 by Kaf’s Toons/Black Writer in Berlin. All Rights Reserved.

On Criminals, Losers, and Suckers, and How NOT to Deal with Your Enemy in Ten Easy Steps

“In case you didn’t notice, we’re being governed by armed thugs, criminals and traitors, who would as readily shoot you as spare you if it serves their purposes. This election is your last chance to save yourself and your family. Trust me, I’m not exaggerating. Not even a bit.” —Lawrence Tribe, Harvard Law Professor and Constitutional Expert

Yes, I know I haven’t been keeping up with all the events that have been taking place since the beginning of this year. It’s 2020, after all. People have been talking about how much of a clusterfuck this year has been. We all want this wretched year to end soon. Unfortunately it seems that 2020 may prove to be nothing more than a prelude to the decade to come. In which case, I might as well wait until the smoke clears from all the protests, “riots,” insurrections and other mayhem to offer any comment on what is happening.

Speaking of “riots” and “mobs”–the Orange Baboon himself is a one man riot. This thing currently occupying the White Bunker (because now it’s not just any old White House) has been increasingly candid about his true feelings towards his colonial subjects. It turned out, after all, that Dump put up only a handful of slabs of his precious “Border Wall”–the same anti-jigaboo Berlin Wall he’d been blabbing off about since his first Presidential campaign back in 2016. All those millions he’d allegedly allocated for building the Wetback Wall ended up in some honkie’s pockets–Steve Bannon, I think, was his name. (Yep, it was. Bannon was recently arrested for sticking a million of the Boogie Wall’s funds into his back pocket. And where did all that money come from? Not Mexico, as Trump insisted it would come from.¹)

Dumpie also knew perfectly well that COVID-19 was extremely dangerous from the outset. Instead of warning his subjects, he deliberately downplayed the dangers of COIVD-19 because he didn’t want to “cause panic”–a flimsy excuse if there ever was one. (You don’t have to take my word for it–listen to the recording. This will bridge a credibility gap in reader’s minds not accustomed to my salty language.)

After this huge gaffe on Trump’s part, it should be relatively easy to connect the dots concerning his overall behavior. What seemed strange and out-of-kilter should now be fairly obvious. It’s not that Trumpy is “unpatriotic” (and at this point in time, quite frankly, there’s nothing to be patriotic about concerning the U.S., seeing just what it’s truly made of, and built upon)–he IS a patriot: towards his Americans, and his concept of what America is.

HIS America does not even include the soldiers who lost their lives defending it. These guys were clowns, losers and suckers who were stupid enough to believe that picking up arms to “defend democracy” was a noble idea. (In reality most of these kids were simply drafted into the wars and had no real say in the matter–not that Trump gives a shit.) In a very sick, twisted way, Trump (ironically) was actually correct when he referred to the fallen soldiers as “suckers.” Why? Because these soldiers were naive enough to believe that they were fighting on behalf of a Democratic society. Even if they were white–and most of them obviously were–they still thought that, being white and male, they had a seat at Uncle Sam’s table. But as it turns out, they didn’t–not really. As rank-and-file white men from the white labor aristocracy (and usually the bottom end) their place at White Daddy’s table was not an honorable one. It only appeared to be so for those of us outside the White Caste.

From within that Caste, White Daddy’s table was set up to serve precisely those it was intended to serve since John Hancock put his fucking signature on the Declaration of Independence–that is, wealthy, white bourgeois men primarily of Northern European stock. The same rule generally applies though a steep decline in Northern European ethnic stock since 1776 has made it necessary for White Daddy to expand his definition of what an Aryan is. Today, rich Italians, Poles, Jews, Greeks, Irish, and some coloreds sit at the table with Uncle Sam (aka White Daddy) and reap the fruits of Mexican, Salvadoran and prison (read: black) labor. For their ilk, the country really is a democracy. It wasn’t always so, but through unspecified “hard work” these non-Aryans were able to take their place at Uncle Sam’s table and eat (while the rest of us starve or drop dead of COVID-19). Those on the dirty end of the table are drunk on the delusion that they are a part of Sammy’s clique. To them, the rank-and-file whites and wannabe whites, this delusion is enough to get them through their pathetic, useless lives. Heaven help them if they ever wake up from their fantasy and discover that Uncle Sam always despised them–as “losers” and “suckers” doing the white kakistocracy’s dirty work.

These are not your friends.

Wanna Fuck Up a Movement? Here’s How!

It is becoming increasingly clear by the day that this orange-faced freako is dangerous, deranged and narcissistic. “It” is probably much worse than any of us can possibly imagine. We are talking of a creature who has even less culture, less tact and less overall knowledge and education than that one-balled Austrian half-caste who wound up starting a world war and destroying most of Europe. We are talking about a monster who puts his money on Kyle Rottenhaus, a 17-year old SS wannabe who roams city streets killing whom he thinks are “untermenschen.” There is a strong possibility that it will refuse to leave the Bunker when it loses the upcoming election (assuming that he will lose or that there will even be an election) and that the military may have to unseat him. And seeing that its followers are obvious maniacs (possibly even more maniacal and diabolical than it is) any attempt to toss Dumpy out on its orange ass come January, 2021–once again, assuming Dumpy loses–will be met with fierce resistance from them.

What does this mean? It means, in layman’s terms, that no matter who wins in November we are facing the strong possibility of a violent coup. A revolution, in other words. It may not happen, but sadly it has happened here before, several times over, so there’s no point in losing one’s mind over the prospect of a national–and by logical extension, global–Fourth Reich.

So having come to the conclusion that the current occupant of the White Bunker is essentially a psychopath, a Nazi thug and hardcore criminal–what does one do next?

In order to fight the Enemy (yeah, I said it–do you think that that Orange Blob is your FRIEND??) one has to have a clear head. One has to know exactly what one is up against and exactly what one’s goals are in defeating the Enemy. 

I will not waste any space deciding how one is to go about getting rid of the Alt-Right. I already stated three fucking years ago that they needed to be killed, and some readers thought I’d lost my mind. (Today the article seems a lot tamer when you consider that even The Nation, a perfectly respectable liberal-left-wing publication, is calling America a failed state.) But I was right. So what does one do–or, rather, what does one not do?

0. See the kid in the above image? That’s Keedron Bryant. Please, for the love of Christ, do not do what he just did. Don’t sing in front of a bunch of fat, burger-scoffing bigots about how much you want to live. You are not convincing these clowns of your humanity. Their minds were made up centuries ago. Besides–and seeing precisely what you are up against as a black person in the US, it makes you look weak and simple-minded. White supremacy doesn’t give a shit about your pity parties.

But if you insist upon not fighting white supremacy the way one should, then I highly recommend that you belt it out before Dumpy, right on the White House lawn. And also do the following:

  1. By all means, do put together a so-called militia made up of alleged army veterans (who don’t know the first thing about handling assault weapons)–and lead them deep into the jungles of America’s shitholes. Make sure their leader is a failed DJ, psychopath and liar who believes in crackpot Hotep theories and whose every other word is a profanity.
  2. Whenever cops, Trump supporters, Proud Boys, Boogaloo Boys, 3 Percenters, the Ku Klux Klan, Antonio Batista, or Andrzej “Zip-a-dee” Duda show up in your spaces, remain unarmed, unprotected, and always naively ask them why they are there. And always tell them that you love them. If you can’t do that, then argue with them. They like that. And when demonstrating, be sure never to carry first-aid kits, never to carry concealed weapons for self-defense, never wear protective gear such as gas-masks, etc. And always put yourself in harm’s way by NOT dropping immediately to the ground whenever the shooting starts. You’ll look real cool and fly with your head staved in from a rubber bullet.
  3. Waste your energy in Afrocentric idiot’s babble; become a Hotep, the cult-nat version of the white alt-right. Be like “Doctor” Umar Johnson and cry about melanin and all that shit, while at the same time scamming your customer base to pay for your sex-trips to Thailand, Brazil, The Philippines, Hungary and other places. In addition you can also ride the ADOS train. And while on the ADOS train, don’t forget to stop over in Intersectionality-Land. That’s important.
  4. As per the above (aka Intersectionality): Please make careful distinctions between yourself and other oppressed and persecuted peoples; always emphasize the fact that since you are non-binary sexually speaking, you have more of a say in the “rEvoLuTiOn” than those who are not. Always emphasize the fact that because you are more “melanated” (read: darker-complected) than the person standing next to you, you are actually MORE black and thus even MORE qualified to be a true “rEvoLuTiOnArY.” (And please ignore people such as Milo Yiannopoulous, Candace Owens, the late Herman Cain, Doja Cat, and that horse-faced, cross-dressing white racist shitstain with his basketball-dunking colored boyfriend.) 
  5. Remember that a “real” “rEvoLuTiOn” is built purely on raw emotion, fantasy, rage and what-not. Don’t ever plan anything. Moan, bitch, argue, split hairs, back-bite. Brag about your fucking background, whether you come from the upper-middle-class or the so-called “streets.” (Especially the latter, because we all know that being a so-called “street person” automatically makes you a revolutionary. And by all means bully anybody who doesn’t belong to your stupid little clique {please pronounce as “CLICK” to sound as stereotypically negroid as possible, because the”rEvoLuTiOn” is a minstrel show, can you dig it??}.)
  6. Forget about discipline. This is especially true for American lefties. Don’t worry about all that shit. Revolutions are supposed to be fun. Revolutions are entirely spontaneous. True revolutionaries do not enforce rules of any kind. Discipline is just, like totally fascist, dude. Get drunk; get in petty fights over dumb shit. Smoke weed, sniff coke, crank, meth, bath salts, etc.; inject all kinds of crazy shit into your veins or stick it up your ass in suppositories (yeah, W.S.B.). And if you feel like it don’t prepare yourself and your group for dealing with future conflicts with violent far-right terrorists, which leads us to
  7. Over intellectualize everything.  The revolution is on paper. It’s about talk, about theories, about the academy. See number FIVE. You still have a stake in the system even though it is crumbling before your very eyes. Don’t make any preparations just in case the far-right terrorists totally freak out and try to annihilate you based on your color or sexual preference or religion or nationality. It’s just not that bad. In that case, you should not be reading anything P. Lewis has to say, because he’s just a headcase–a “butt-hurt Negro,” as some old mammy put it a few years ago.
  8.  Most importantly, never study your Enemy. Always moan and groan about how awful they are and how powerful and impregnable they are. (Low morale is important, you know.) Never learn the history of the opposing team. Never learn of their weak points. Always assume that they can beat you and if you are black, always use that as your iron-clad alibi (Because BLACK = WACK). 
  9. In reference to number EIGHT, always assume that the Enemy’s views of you and your culture are more valid than your own. Always assume that the Enemy is always right and you are wrong (because he/she is white, powerful, famous and has a lot of, you know, cash and shit). The Enemy is really your friend because he/she lives on the same block or the same apartment building as you do, or might even be a member of your family.
  10. Don’t do a goddamned thing. Continue to believe that a future conflict is not in the making, and that this whole conflict will die down within a year or two, and that COVID-19 will just magically go away. By 2022, everything will be just like it was before 2014 or even 9/11/2001. After all, the Enemy said so. 

¹The money came from “losers” and “suckers”–you know, your average American taxpayer.

AMERICA IS BLIND BY DESIGN

“Do you see me?”

Well?

Do they see us?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

*

POSTSCRIPT: FOR DUMMIES

TL;DR

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

The Interrogation

Short story by P. Lewis Henderson

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

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

“No, I can’t get in my dorm,” I said.

He sucked in his breath.

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

He drew his stick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No—it’s real.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But I was just—“

“Shutup, nigger, you a goddamn liar!”

“But I—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah! Burn baby burn!”

“You better talk, boy.”

“I can’t,” I groaned.

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

“No.”

“You haven’t?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

1993, 2011

 

 

Why We Hate: On So-Called “Black Racism”

“Just thinking about them makes me feel like I have swallowed shit.”

Howard Roundtree, Drylongso: A Self-Portrait of Black America

I remember sitting on a metro bus many years ago in DC and having two Ethiopian immigrants staring daggers of pure hatred into me. There seemed no rhyme or reason to their fathomless hatred, but of course, I knew what the reason was. I was African American; they were not. They were Ethiopians and like most of their ilk, they had picked up on the national prejudices towards African Americans. It was the same with the Salvadorans, Nicaraguans, Hondurans, Mexicans and other nationalities in Langley Park, Maryland. There was hardly a day in which one could walk out the door of one’s house and not hear your neighbors pointing, laughing, glowering at you—while making at least a half-dozen snide references to your color. It was always the same: negro, mono, mayate, blah blah blah, and often accompanied with a fat wad of spit or a beer bottle kicked your way.

Sometimes a mean and spite-ridden stare would suffice, or a bag or package hurriedly jerked away from you–as if you were going to steal it from them. And why wouldn’t you steal it? After all, your countrymen insisted to these hard-working immigrants, you were just a lazy, worthless “nigger” who got by on welfare handouts and food stamps, and spent your time getting drunk, or getting high, or chasing after other folks’ women.

But I wasn’t. I never did these things; never accepted a welfare check (as if that was such a bad thing, in and of itself), but try explaining that to these two dumpy characters near the Salvation Army depot in Langley Park. For these two, the mere sight of me and my face were enough to make them spit on the ground, and snarl, mono negro with absolute hate.

I felt a visceral hatred for these short, squalid sons-of-bitches, burnt to a crisp by the sun and looking as if they stunk of decades-old urine in their raggedy work clothes; I still hate them.

It was nothing new. That same year I needed to buy some headphones in Washington, DC. I entered a shop–well, I tried to enter the shop, but the white proprietor blocked me from entering. He glowered at me and said, “nope. Closed.” His shop indicated that its closing hours were at 8 pm; it was roughly 5:40. His attitude caught me completely off-guard; I guess I should have realized what kind of “society” I was still living in, that the pretense of DC’s racial and social integration was basically just that–a pretense.

Five years earlier, while working as a temp for the US government, I passed the White House on my way to work. The White House looked like a very dull, humble-looking residence in my eyes. A mother and her son passed me. The little boy, a dirty blonde sod, mutters without even looking my way, “I think I’m better than all of them put together.” The mother says, “you shouldn’t say that about Africans, sweetie.” The son countered with–and at this point, both of them looked at me with a kind of gleeful derision–“Niggers stink!!”

Nothing new in that, either. I remember white kids greeting me and my brother with disgusting taunts as we climbed through the jungle gyms of Wheaton Regional Park. I was only seven years old and yet I knew what “booga booga booga” meant; I heard it again, 25 years later in Bucharest, and again in Tunis in 2003. I’m sure there are African refugees who hear it all the time, no matter where they are in the world, even on the African continent–sometimes it seems as if most of the planet (thanks to social media) is morphing into Bensonhurst.

To this very day, I loathe them; I loathe every single one of these bastards who tried to shove me under the bus–or, to be more precise, into onrushing traffic–because of my race and ethnicity. I loathe every single one of those shopowners, students, truck drivers, flight attendants, pedestrians, escorts, grocers, club bouncers, editors, waiters, landlords, and above all, cops and security officers. I hated to see their twisted, smug faces, proudly ensconced in their newly acquired Yankee prejudices; it made me want to puke. Actually, to be honest, it made me want to grab a shotgun and blow their heads off.

If I could get away with it, I used to think to myself, I would do it without even asking why. In college I was dangerously close to picking up a gun. There’s no need to ask “why” when your back is up against the wall. One would be stupid not to despise one’s own tormentors and persecutors. One is not supposed to “love” insults, degradation and humiliation; it just ain’t natural.

We can die from them. Like choked by underbrush, heavy

weeds. We see him.

Pull the election lever, and men die in Greystone, elec­

trocuted, or are

beat to death on the comers of dirty cities. By heroes. These

are the

killers’ heroes. Wd that they were our own. And not the

mad races killing

We have a nigger in a cape and cloak. Flying above the

shacks and whores.

He has just won an election. A wop is his godfather. Praise

Wop from whom

all blessings flow. The nigger edges sidewise in the light

breeze, his fingers

scraping nervously in his palms. He has had visions. With

commercials. Change

rattles in his pockets. He is high up. Look, he signals. Turns,

backup, for

cheers. He swoops. The Wop is waving. Wave Wop. 

Leroi Jones (Amiri Baraka), ELECTION DAY (Newark, New Jersey)

*

Everyone in my family hated “crackers,” whether they admitted to it or not. My great-great-great-grandmother, Virginia Brown, naturally did not love “serving” her “master”–a loathsome creep who literally spit on her in disgust. I’m sure far worse things had happened to her on that old Virginia plantation 165 years ago. However Grandma “Jenny” was not one to take an insult from a redneck lying down–not even if said redneck owned her. Later that evening she plotted to bash his bloody brains in and wound up doing just that…only to wind up on the gallows. Only a last-minute decision to sell Grandma to another master kept her alive. In the end, she fled the plantation–either for a maroon community or up North; we aren’t so sure what happened, but she did not stick around to serve another master.

Of course, most of us in the family weren’t quite so bold in dealing with the crackers. We simply smiled in their faces and lied to them and said otherwise, out of fear of job loss or beatings or worse. My great-grandfather was forced into the Army in 1917 (after giving birth to his first-born child, my grandmother). Upon signing up to fight in France on behalf of Uncle Sham, he stated his identity as “African”–no “negro” or “colored” or “coon” for him. As for that redneck who shanghaied him–and whom I’d met as a child many, many years later–I have no idea how Papa Phil felt about him, but I know good and goddamn well that he did not love the bastard.

I have no idea how my father felt when he saw his uncle lynched in Key West, Florida around 1936. Dad wasn’t quite eleven years old when it took place. I have no idea if this lynching was even recorded. But I’m sure my father didn’t love his uncle’s killers. I was not inside his head as he sat in that mess hall in Arizona in 1944, watching German POWs eating alongside white American soldiers, hoping they would leave enough food left over for his “colored” regiment. (One can see here how he and his “colored” regiment were seen in the eyes of their countrymen.) I do know that my father was not overjoyed to be called “Señor Stovepipe” by one of the professors at Harvard University. (My father was doing post-Graduate research work at Harvard in the late Seventies.) He most certainly did not invite that motherfucker over to our house for dinner.

I know goddamn well my mother was not pleased to work as a domestic for rich white trash back in the early fifties, and certainly not tickled to death to be served her meals in a fucking cat dish. She told me so. Some of her white employers, of course, weren’t entirely “trash”: some were quite benevolent and kind and thoughtful in dealing with her, and even encouraged her to continue her education at Virginia Union University. Yet when the Brown vs. Board of Education decision struck down school segregation in May of 1954, her kind and thoughtful employers wept copious tears as they read the headlines.

We hated them with the same passion as we hated the fucking redneck swine that threw rocks at our house in Adelphi, Maryland and made monkey noises at us. We hated the bastards who sicked a German shepherd on us at an Indiana gas station back in 1962. We hated the Cambodian immigrant workers at a Seven-Eleven in 1982 who treated us worse than any redneck would have dreamed of doing. We felt that White men coddled these “immigrants,” not because he liked them, but because he felt he could use them to further his own politically perverted agenda. The same way he used the Koreans, whom we saw popping up in black neighborhoods sometime in the late seventies and early eighties, and whom we quickly learned to despise. The Koreans–along with the Salvadorans, the Nicaraguans, the Vietnamese, the Syrians, the Nigerians, the Israelis, the Ethiopians and Haitians–in turn, began to despise us.

I didn’t consider myself a “racist,” and had no problems in dealing with anyone who didn’t hate me for who I was. But folks like this were as rare as hen’s teeth. All I remember was the glassy, snide, passive-aggressive contempt I received from Washingtonians who weren’t Black like me. I remembered being alone, broke, raggedy and cut out of every social circle imaginable. I didn’t like anybody in that shitty town. I didn’t like the “gooks,” “spics,” “hymies,” “Ay-rabs” and I definitely didn’t like “The Honky.” They didn’t like us, either, on principle–the principle being that “niggers” are inferior.

“I think it is a kind of suicide to like anything that hates you. If we are the only people who really want to be Americans, what is the point?” –Harriet Jones, Drylongso: A Self-Portrait of Black America

Back in the late 80s I spent most of my time in DC on Howard University’s campus. I wasn’t scared of dealing with downtown DC, I simply didn’t want to be bothered. Frankly, I found it a boring, overly conservative, sterile, sad little cow town, ringed with Victorian brownstones and shot through with gang violence. (DC’s homicide rates at that time–say, 1988-1992–were a ghastly joke.) At Howard, between classes, I barricaded myself in the lower recesses of the Undergraduate Library or the Founders Library. It had very, very little to do with shyness or any latent Asperger’s Syndrome and more to do with–well, my simply not wanting to be bothered. James Baldwin once said that a black man simply cannot go through life covered in the world’s spit. Of course, that’s true. But for me, sadly, much of that spit–while a student at Howard–came from my own people.

The Black Bourgeoisie treated me worse than any “hymie” or “spic” or “gook” ever did. The kind of trash I heard from random white and Latino louts in Maryland and DC I heard on Howard’s campus on a daily basis. I endured five and a half years under their hostile gaze, sticking it out to secure the education I felt I needed to get ahead in American society. But from today’s vantage point, I wonder if it was really worth it. No “chink” threatened to kill me while eating in the Howard U. cafeteria; “spic” girls did not laugh in my face when I tried to talk to them (they simply ignored me altogether) nor did “da Jooz” throw rocks at me, throw their coffee at me, spit at my feet, cheat me out of passing grades, or slam clipboards (or malt liquor bottles) upside my head. (They didn’t threaten to rape me, either.) In all fairness, some Korean deli owners did threaten to call the cops on me for letting them know they’d cheated me out of fifteen cents!

But I didn’t have to shop at Korean delis if I didn’t want to. With Howard I had no choice but to stick it out if I wanted a degree. I wonder if my reception would have been less hostile had I transferred to University of Maryland—not because the school was free of racism (a laughable thought, knowing what I knew about the State of Maryland) but because I would not be a target of self-loathing upper-middle-class negroes who saw me as their own personal punching bag. Seen in retrospect, I guess I should have dropped out and spared myself their misguided judgments—my skin not being dark enough or not being light enough; my hair being too long, too short, or too fucking nappy; my clothes not being flashy enough; my being too short or too tall; my not being muscular enough, not wearing the proper watch, not wearing the proper shoes or speaking in the proper accent, or what the fuck have you. Something was always wrong with me, in their eyes. It took quite a few years (and a novel about it) to realize that there wasn’t a damned thing wrong with me, save for my refusal to accept Howard’s childish definitions of what a “Strong Black Man” was supposed to be like. As a friend once told me in Howard’s cafeteria, many years ago, “you know what your problem is on this campus, Phil? Everybody up here is trying to get with the program. But you”—and he pointed to me with a laugh, half-derisively, “just want to be you. That’s not right.”

But I was right. What the hell is so goddamn wrong about wanting to be you?

Philip Lewis is just one Black schmuck among 43 million. This crap happens all the time in America (and elsewhere) if you’re Black. Of course you can just lie about it and pretend they are just illusions, that life is just “tough” and one needs to just get on with the dirty business of surviving in the American (read: World®) jungle. I can just hear the Booker T. type negroes now babbling in the background. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Step your game up. Go back to school. Keep your head to the sky and your eyes on the prize. Oh, yes, sweetie-pie. Nobody likes a “butt-hurt Negro.”

And yet once you get that “prize”–the cushy job, fat salary, house in the suburbs (or a condo or loft), fly girlfriend/wife/boyfriend/husband, bad-ass car and every goddamned thing that goes along with it–you will soon realize how sour those grapes are. It is only a matter of time before the veneer of “success” begins to peel off and you are left with the bare bones of your raw feelings. You begin to wonder if “The Struggle” to get all that stuff was worth it. It wasn’t worth it. Especially when you find yourself being harangued by neighbors for having a barbeque (when your fellow white neighbors aren’t). Especially when you find yourself being told to leave a restaurant (when your fellow white diners aren’t). Especially when you find your face on the ground in a pool of your own blood for having been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and your white friends are standing around, wondering what the fuck just transpired. Hustle-porn sucks; it’s bad for your mental and physical health.

The sheer hatred you feel for everyone around you, especially for people who aren’t Black, is still there; it merely went into hiding for the time being. Your education and your wealth will not shield you from the world’s contempt. Neither does your popularity nor your sex appeal, nor your feelings of good will towards your fellow human beings. You can still be a Bakari Henderson and have a bunch of Balkans beat you senseless on some god-forsaken Greek island. You can be Phil Henderson and have a junkie punch a hole in your mouth right outside your own fucking doorstep, right here in Berlin, and have the cops make light of your injury. You realize that deep down, you never really liked living in this disgusting sham of a “Western” civilization; furthermore, it never liked you. The hatred is mutual. You’re just fooling yourself. The entirety of our contemporary civilization—morally speaking—is predicated upon hatred. Economically speaking, it’s built on highway robbery; politically, it’s predicated on murder.

You want to be nice, you want to be liked, even respected (the hardest thing of all to achieve in a “civilization” that views you as a beast), and yet you realize in the end that even in the eyes of your loved ones, you’re just…well, Black. You’re not supposed to be as smart as everyone else and certainly not smarter than everyone else. And when you insist upon being just as smart or smarter the subtle ostracism begins; you want to believe that it’s all an illusion, that maybe it really is just you; you’re the one at fault here.

Of course, you are at fault in a sense–you’re at fault for not abiding by the world’s expectations of what a Negro should be. These expectations are, by any moral standard, completely unacceptable.

“…I wanted to get away; I wanted to leave Cleveland and Ohio and all the United States of America and go somewhere I could escape the thought of my parents and my brother, somewhere black people weren’t considered the shit of the earth. It took me forty years to discover that such a place does not exist.”

–Chester Himes, The Quality of Hurt

And then the nation at large wonders why a certain segment of Black America is full of hate. There’s nothing to like about our predicament. Idiotic celebrities like Kanye West, Beyonce, Lil Wayne and their ridiculous lot don’t count; they are simply the minor details in a long, ugly, bloody story–the story of our fucking captivity. America spends billions of dollars a year spewing out Negrophobic propaganda worldwide (much of it masquerading as “entertainment” and “crime statistics”) and yet Americans feign surprise when “darkies” like me say I don’t like you. Americans are surprised because–to be perfectly honest–they refuse to see African Americans as human beings.

“And how are we supposed to feel about all of this? Well, fine of course,” writes mauludSADIQ on Medium.com. Of the late Michael Brown, SADIQ writes, “(He) was vilified… He had marijuana socks. He stole cigarillos. He cursed at the officer. The same newspapers and magazines and blogs that looked for all the possible humanly things that could have pushed poor James Holmes (mass murderer of 12) over the edge, dedicated an equal amount of pages to the ‘dark, criminal past’ of Michael Brown.”

Oh, yes. We are supposed to feel “cool” after our mothers, fathers,  brothers or sisters or aunts or husbands or wives are randomly gunned down by some fucking lunatic Negrophobe. We are supposed to feel somehow “spiritually enriched,” or take some sort of bullshit “philosophical” attitude after enduring tons of abuse at the hands of the American (read: global) power structure. America routinely robs you of your humanity and if you, the “darky,” don’t bow your head and meekly smile, then you’re an aggressive ape. According to whites and whitified non-whites, of course. “Because,” SADIQ writes, “The reality is — like Isma’il Latif has often pointed out, our role for white people is to entertain them, cheerfully. Anything beyond that…is seen as aggression.”

White Westerners (and their flunkies) view it as “aggression.” Others on this planet who have suffered similar oppression see otherwise. “They tell us we are making Spring,” writes Ghania Mouffok, an Algerian writer. “But you say we’re making war. A Tunisian friend of mine said to me, ‘they treat us like dogs and they’re surprised when we turn into wolves.”*

No, the slavery never ended; it merely shape-shifted into newer forms more pleasing to the eye and senses. In this new slavery one could become a billionaire like Oprah or Bill Cosby, or even a President like Barack Obama, and yet still find yourself vilified and boxed in whenever you refused to conform to white expectations of what a “good nigra” is supposed to be. Bill Cosby was foolish enough to believe that he could get away with the kind of shit that Roman Polanski got away with. Oprah was foolish enough to believe that her hundreds of millions (and her US passport) would shield her from the humiliation she received at a high-end Swiss boutique; apparently “negers” don’t by 40,000 euro purses. Obama was foolish enough to believe that being the President of the United States was sufficient unto itself. It wasn’t. (Ever heard of Leon Blum?)

Perceptions? Well, what do you think? “And it is this perception that Black people have to deal with on a day to day basis. And it is this perception that leaves so many unarmed Black people dead at the hand of fearful officers. Until we deal with that perception, nothing will change.”

The “perception,” simply put, is that the African is not a human being. This is the perception of the very people who control the entirety of the United States of America. Don Donnie has already made his “perceptions” perfectly clear, as has CNN, Fox News and all the other international US propaganda machines. It is inconceivably bad, and has been for untold decades.¹ When America tells the black person to “calm down,” it’s as if they were addressing some entity not quite animal, not quite human—three-fifths of a human being, according to their dear Constitution.

No, we don’t like you. We don’t have to like you, let alone love you. Yes, many of us have turned into wolves as a result of this blind hatred and gleefully cannibalized each other–like Ms. Mouffok suggested, we shit where we eat; many of us act like monkeys, pantomiming the very same fantasy of the savage ape that our masters imposed upon us–as if, in pushing against the walls and bars that hem us in, we merely strengthen these same walls; the more idiotic among us have come to enjoy this obscene captivity, some going so far as to call it Paradise.

Yeah, such a thing really is possible in this neo-liberal bizarro world we live in. It was certainly possible under Keynesian capitalism and God forbid, even under the bullshit mercantile capitalism that existed in the Old South before the Civil War–where even Negroes could own other Negroes provided they had their fucking “free papers” and a bit of cash to spare (and the “right” complexion).

I don’t love you. Who is to say what that will mean. I don’t

Love you, expressed the train, moves, and uptown days later

We look up and breathe much easier

I don’t love you

Amiri Baraka, The Autobiography of LeRoi Jones

For some strange reason some of us still do actually love Uncle Sam (I’m not one of them, however), since there is such a thing called Stockholm Syndrome. There is also a thing called “gaslighting” and “narcissistic parenting.” I bring up the latter because white America interacts with every single one of her “minority groups” the same way a narcissistic parent would interact with her children. The parent plays favorites with her children, lives her pathetic life through them, picks a golden child (in the case of America, this “golden child” would be christened a “model minority”) to use as a yardstick against her other siblings; and naturally there is that one child who is raised while the others are spoiled. The one child who is treated like garbage, who is “gaslighted” from the cradle, and made to bear the burden of the whole family’s sins, is– of course–the little Pickaninny.

————————————————————————————-

*As a side note: “white” Tunisians are notorious for their shitty treatment of “black” Tunisians; in fact, they “treat them like dogs”.

¹When the late John A. Williams visited Haifa in 1967, he noted that so-called “Arab leaders” in Haifa were “far readier to discuss American Negroes and their ‘high crime rate’ than they were their own situation”. (Williams, John A. Flashbacks, Anchor/Doubleday, 1973)

“Bolsie!”

bolsie.jpg

Here he is, folks, everybody’s favorite fascist fuckwit…whose ascendancy to the highest seat of Brazilian power coincides with the burning of the nation’s national archives, the loss of indigenous languages (and a hole in the national memory, to be filled with more idiotic telenovelas, more dope, more racism, more white supremacist greaseball idiots like the bitch I ran an intellectual train on earlier this year)–and still more tragically, the loss of Brazilian lives to drug cartels and maniac cops. Bolsie’s job, of course, is not to reign in either the cops or the killers, but cut a deal with them so that his hold over the country (and, eventually, what’s left of Venezuela) can be further consolidated. 

What’s next? The wholesale destruction of the Amazon rainforest, naturally…leading to the eventual termination of all human life on earth…thanks to our old pal Bosie, proud descendant of Portuguese settlers and all-around wise guy who glorifies dictators and hit squads, and who would rather string up his own son than see him kiss another guy on the lips. Bosie…A helluva guy.

(©2018 by Kaf. All Rights Reserved)

The Caucasian Kakistocracy, Revisited

PART TWO OF TWO

In the months since I posted Part One of this article, a long string of infuriating race-related incidents have occurred–all of which merely reinforce everything that I’ve written about this so-called “Caucasian Aristocracy.”

Less than 24 hours ago the New York Supreme Court dropped one of six charges against super-predator Hollywood mogul Harvey Weinstein. While not ostensibly race-related, Weinstein’s acquittal on just this one charge speaks volumes in itself. It comes directly on the heels of the confirmation and beatification of Brett Kavanaugh (misogynist, ex-frat boy and hard rightist, to whom David Duke gushed, “Thank God you are now on the Supreme Court!”), the revelations that Trump helped his parents evade millions of taxes (not to mention his own sex scandals with Stormy Daniels and other shady ladies), and the rehiring of Timothy Loehmann–the cop who killed 12-year old Tamir Rice in 2014–in Bellaire, Ohio. Georgia lawmaker Jason Spencer (no relation to Richard, though one would think otherwise) literally shows his fat white ass to the world on Sacha Baron Cohen’s This is America (indeed!), screaming “nigger!” at the top of his lungs, making “ching-chong” noises and sucking on a dildo. Jason Spencer was elected to the Georgia House of Representatives in 2010 on the Republican ticket; his fat ass is still there, probably still shouting “nigger” and still pulling his eyes back in the presence of Asians. (At least in private.)

And in the meantime, Bill Cosby is serving three to ten years in prison. This is not to gloss over Cosby showing his own ass decades ago, when he hypocritically dismissed Huey Newton as “nothing more than a thug” and a “hoodlum”; when he made a name for himself playing a spy on TV (at the height of the Black Power movement), and later went on to become “America’s Dad” while privately dropping Quaaludes in ugly women’s drinks and lecturing the most exploited class of people in America–the black underclass–about not speaking English, not pulling up their pants and getting shot over ninety-cent slices of stale pound cake.

Bill Cosby’s actions perfectly personified the uselessness and moral bankruptcy of America’s Black Elite. He sat on a fortune close to a billion dollars while millions of blacks nationwide had to steal to pay their rent, or even get their next meal. So it’s not a matter of shedding tears for Billy-Boy being locked up. That’s not the point. The point is that Billy-Boy, far wealthier than Harvey Weinstein could ever hope to be, is sitting in a jail cell while Harvey, Roy Moore, Donald Trump, Tim Loehmann, Roman Polanski and above all that little turd George Zimmerman are not. That’s because Billy-Boy’s billion doesn’t add up to much when his skin ain’t white.

Further down the food chain, the outlook for those outside the Aristocracy looks far bleaker. The Aristocracy feels (perhaps rightly so) that it is under assault from the dirty, unwashed, unwhite masses of the world (especially the black ones), so it is pushing back against them post-Reconstruction style. This Kakistocracy loves playing victim even with an assault rifle in its hands. Down on the very bottom of the American totem pole, the Afro-American has become a veritable moving target. The days of the African Dodger are back; only this time, they don’t need to put your head in a canvas and throw rocks at your head; they simply call the cops. Nekia Jones of Columbus, Ohio, for instance, has been locked up for nonpayment of child support–Ms. Jones is childless. Delta Airlines, a cracker concern, has shown its collective ass again in several appalling incidents (generally involving black women), one resulting in a passenger’s baggage being damaged in flight by incompetent baggage-handlers. (The passenger had the police called on her by a fascist staff member on the lower rung of the Kakistocratic food chain. The fascist’s excuse–like the one used by the soft Gestapo in Berlin at KFC–was that the unnamed woman was filming her.) A day ago, yet another Southern (Georgia) white woman calls the police on a black man babysitting his white friends’ children; Pool Patty, Permit Patty, Permit BettyBarbecue Becky, and their male equivalent “Permit Model”–some sexually insecure schmuck who couldn’t bear to see a black model in a photo shoot–have sent a collective message to those on the bottom of the global racial hierarchy: anything you do–even if it is so much as reading a fucking book–is a threat to our well-being.

No–scratch that. To the white Kakistocrat, merely being alive as a black (or brown or red) person is a threat to one’s well-being.

jennifer-schulte-bbq-becky
Jennifer Schulte, aka Barbecue Becky: Patriarch with a Pussy

It’s noteworthy that the overwhelming majority of racist calls have come from white women. No one should be surprised that this is so. These same poor white women, who wrung their hands and howled like banshees over the “sexual misconduct” of Harvey, Billy-Boy, Al Franken, Bill O’Riley, Sean Hannity, Donald Trump, Kevin Spacey and other men have never been opposed to The Patriarchy (or The Capitalist Kakistocracy, which is what it really is) except in theory. In practice, we clearly see that their hijacking of #MeToo (from a black woman dog-whistling at the Kakistocracy in the vain hope that their system would round up black male perverts) was, and still is, a clumsy power-grab on their part. Grabbing for what? The desks, round-tables, and cushy positions of the same “Patriarchy” they pretended to despise. They don’t hate the male chauvinist white Aristocracy; they simply want to run it for themselves. They are the female equivalent of those slimy, ethically bankrupt Third World elites who moved into the same comfy positions of power left behind by the British, French and Spanish after the colonizers left Africa.

Nawal el Saadawi, Egyptian novelist and activist, was perfectly on point when she described Theresa May and Hillary Clinton as being “even more patriarchal than men.” She forgot about Angela Merkel but then again, one gets the point. At the rate everything is going politically in the world today the Kakistocracy will continue for the foreseeable future. Not because this disgusting class is impregnable, but because this class finds it so easy to dangle 95% of humanity on puppet strings. No one outside the Kakistocracy is even thinking of resisting the bullshit. White women, negresses such as Candace Owens, Michelle Malkin and Jannine Piro (a sand Negress), reactionary boy-toys like Paris Dennard and Milo Yiannopoulous and super-spades like Kanye West, David Clarke and Jesse Lee Peterson will be our future gauleiters–reactionary buffoons whose main job is to vainly patch up the cracks in a rapidly disintegrating Western civilization.

Down the Totem Pole

The further you go down the American totem pole the darker people get, the vaguer their faces become, until they are all one dark mass on the very bottom. That dark mass supports the weight of the kakistocracy; it functions as a kind of cornerstone-slash-slop jar. We can be cute and call it “Da Hood” but everyone in the society (including other blacks) understand it to be That Other Place–Niggertown†.

Whatever it is, it is not America–not really. Not as the White Aristocrat defines America. I completely reject everything the White Aristocrat defines as America or as American, but that’s not the point. The point is that in his eyes, and in the eyes of everyone who sees the world through his eyes, Niggertown is America’s toilet. Niggertown represents (to him) a negation of all great Western values and morals–even though Niggertown is entirely the creation of white Western culture.

Ironic, yes. This Niggertown, this Black Slopjar is “dirty,” “evil,” “smelly,” “ape-infested,” but at the same time “we,” the White Aristocracy, desperately need this Black Slopjar. In a moral sense, we need “Niggertown” in order to define ourselves in opposition to it; without it, our existence (as White Aristocrats) makes no sense. It’s true that (in our minds) the high moral standards that “we whites” think we are setting for ourselves don’t apply there since Niggertown is (supposedly) the absolute moral opposite of “America.” But that is part of the fun. The society we have constructed for ourselves is simply too “white”; there’s no “passion” in it, no color, no adventure, no sensuality. So what do we do if we can’t go to Thailand? Go to Niggertown. Da Hood is not only America’s Inferno, it’s also America’s whorehouse, the place where “we” go slumming and let down our hair. It’s the place where “we” buy our drugs, our pussy, the joint where we indulge our sense of white privilege to the hilt since in Niggertown, we can’t be held accountable for what we do since we are never really guilty: only the “Niggers” are truly guilty.

Please note that Niggertown is as much a state of mind as it is a place. So if you are too afraid to go to West Baltimore in the flesh, you can blast Tupac or Drake from your car stereo and sag your fucking pants or even slap on blackface if you so wish. You can host a Mandingo party or pick up random “Niggers” in clubs and suck them off (or have them suck you off) in the toilet. What happens in Niggertown stays in Niggertown.

In this regard, talk of “Black Irresponsibility” is not only foolish and idle, but obscene.¹We all know that before “White” there was no “Black,” that the creation of “Negroes” or “Niggers” or “Blacks” required not merely the creation of White but the conditions under which white would flourish and “Black” would languish. As a side note, it’s worth noting that the Brazilian term for “Big Nigger,” negao, also means “negative” in Portuguese. I can’t tell you if that was a deliberate choice of wording but it is obvious that Black “irresponsibility” is but a negative reflection, an “Afro-pantomime” of the White Kakistocracy. All values within that system have their origins with the founders of that system; those in “Da Hood” may make some adjustments to those values in order to adapt those values to their own needs, but in essence they are the same.

A rotten, despicable, worthless society predicated entirely upon the notion that having white skin (and being rich) makes you a blameless saint in the eyes of most, whilst being the opposite makes you the devil. A black man’s worth increases in this society only if he comes closer to what white society deems its ideal…and yet, if this same black man were to truly become “white male” in every sense of the ideal save for his complexion, he would be tossed in jail.

Black women with braids and Afro-styled hair are weird or outre whereas a white woman who thoughtlessly appropriates these same styles (and wrongly, I might add) is “stylish” and “cutting edge.” We routinely see how white women appropriate, use and rip-off black, brown, red and yellow women, and use them as the battering rams to force their way to the top of the American food chain. #MeToo, the anti-Gun march: all sentimental, idiotic pie-eyed displays of the worst American puritan knee-jerk hysteria surrounding sex.

Every white woman who imagines she was felt up by Woody Allen or Woody Woodpecker or Mickey Mouse comes out with some wretched story about how she was abused, and the whole world stands up to applaud it. And when the Native American woman details how she and her sisters were raped or murdered at the hands of the American police or other men (including their own), one hears crickets. Thousands of black women have disappeared in the DC area alone over the past 10 years, and not a single soul has bothered to come forward to ask of their whereabouts. African women are routinely trafficked into sex slavery in Europe, along with Balkan, Romanian and South-East Asian women. Sri Lankan, Filipino and Ethiopian women are routinely raped, beaten and worked to death by Gulf Arab or Lebanese employers. (Many of these employers are other females.) Just recently a Kenyan woman was beaten senseless in the streets of Beirut by two Lebanese hoodlums. There is no fucking hashtag movement to highlight the plight of these particular women, and if there is it definitely gets set on the back-burner behind the outrage over Bill Cosby, Harvey Weinstein or Al Franken’s cute hijinks.

This is not merely because Thai prostitutes or Ethiopian maids are not “beautiful people” like Lady Gaga or Kylie Jenner or some other played up megastar, but because they are not white.

Their whiteness also blinds them to their own historical demise. In every sense of the word Western culture is nonexistent outside of the Louvre or some National Gallery of Art. Contemporary Western architecture–and this goes for everything being constructed elsewhere in the world–is hideous. Enormous glass cages which stretch for miles and miles around, filled with mindless drones parked behind cubicles or stuck in some hideous plastic condo. In the Italian Renaissance, a major building was generally conceived as a thing of beauty, nobility and grandeur. Today, everything–the architecture included–has an expiration date. Today no architect anywhere in the world (since they are all blindly following the White lead) would even dream of constructing a Sistine Chapel or an Alhambra or a Taj Mahal or a Machu Picchu or anything comparable to the splendors of Luxor or Karnak or Kilwa.

Why? Because White Supremacy–the ideology of the Cacistocracy–is strictly utilitarian, one that only function in opposition to whatever it deems threatening–even if that thing is Beauty itself.

Even their contemporary music is ugly. No more Beethovens, Mahlers or Janaceks can be found among them, unless they are hiding away in some attic in Lisbon or Lviv. Their “white” novels are solipsistic, pretentious masturbation. Academia, especially in the United States, is falling by the wayside. National infrastructures are crumbling, and not merely because everything is put into the American war machine. America’s infrastructures crumble because those responsible for maintaining these infrastructures are far more interested in laying about in Mar-a-lago or some God-forsaken Caribbean island stuffing adolescent girls or boys and basking in–what else?–their insufferable sense of being (once again) white.²

“Five centuries of colonialism, capitalism and nationalism have turned Europeans into the enemy of the human kind,” Franco Berardi fumed last year, in response to reports of mass migrant deaths in the Mediterranean, slave-dealing in Libya and the surge of moronic, right-wing Western populism. “May they (Europeans) be cursed forever! May Europeans be swept away by the storm they have generated, by the weapons they are building, by the fire they have ignited, by the hatred they have cultivated!”

Bifo Berardi’s words ignited, as they say, a “storm of controversy”; some folks considered him a bit mad. But when one sees Europeans–and by extension, white Westerners and their perennial flunkies–within the context of a decaying, bloated, self-satisfied Kakistocracy, then his words make perfect sense. There can be no democracy, let alone Socialism, in a planet dominated by racist white aristocrats and their colored court jesters. 

___________________________________________

†Niggertown wasn’t created by “Niggers” but by systematic “red-lining” (translated into English, it means setting up special residential areas for “Niggers” so whites can control their movements, their wallets, their culture, their minds, etc. In other words, a fucking township, or a reservation). There was also mental redlining. American music was once redlined on record labels (known as “race records” or “Sepia Series”). The African American was and is redlined in novels, plays, newspaper articles, and movies: restricted to being portrayed as an idiot, a whore, a mammy, a suck-up, a shiftless ne’er-do-well, a criminal, a thug, a “problem”; playing out the same tired, hackneyed roles that the Euro-American crafted for him, roles that revealed nothing of the Black actor’s true personality but merely those buried instincts (what Freud called the ID) that the good white aristocrat could not act out in polite white society. Hence, the minstrel show, Al Jolson, Elvis Presley, Satchmo (as opposed to Louis Armstrong), Stepinfetchit, Drake, Eminem and all the rest. Hence “Ebonics,” which is what white society has made of Black English–a language that Afro-Americans constructed in order to define the world on their terms and not that of the white aristocrats.

¹”Everything is ‘white genocide’ because they can only operate without challenges. Unless the deck is stacked against everyone else they literally cannot keep up with the other ethnic groups, ESPECIALLY not against blacks. While every other group was building civilizations, kingdoms, and empires white people literally were in caves. That is a scientific fact. This went on for several thousand years. Hell even the Mesoamericans had the Mayan empire before whites created their first settlement. There is no such thing as ‘white supremacy’, they aren’t supreme. If they were they could win at equal footing and history shows THEY. NEVER. HAVE. AND. NEVER. WILL. There is only white psychosis and white tyranny and they’re starting to see their failings and so the ‘white genocide’ excuse surfaced again, which they used several times through human history.” —

comment from “HaveYouEverDancedWithTheDevilInThePaleMoonLight”

²And what’s the whole point of the war machine, anyway? For the ultimate showdown between Western Whiteness and the Third World (namely, the Middle East, Latin America, Asia, Africa and perhaps Russia, if only because Russia and China are the two major stumbling blocks between Uncle Sam and absolute global hegemony).

“We are not Nazis!”

The fuck you’re not Nazis.

In 1994, I was sitting smugly at an Athenian cafe terrace sipping coffee when an angry young man encountered me. By his looks I figured he was Greek. “I am Albanian,” he told me. After informing me that he dug black music and that Albanian men dug black girls, he said, “what are you doing in this fucking Greek shithole?”

I told him I was on vacation. “Why? The Greeks are all fascist. And the Greek girls are ugly. Albanian girls are much better. Even the Greek language and food is just very, very shit.”

I took his complaints seriously because I understood something. I was not walking in his shoes. I was walking around in white sneakers and an outdated 1980s fucking Miami Vice jacket with money in my pocket and access to the cheapest whores in Europe. At the time I was still something of a greenhorn when it came to fathoming the depths of Greek racism. Of course, I knew it existed; I saw the tension on the young Albanian’s face when I encountered him later–I saw him, but he didn’t see me, so wrapped up was he in his rage. I understood that look on his face: I had the same look on mine when I was back in Adelphi, Maryland. I did not dare contemplate that one day that in Greece, I would have that same angry, haunted look as the young Albanian chap.

In the late eighties and early nineties, whatever racism Athenians showed me was far outweighed by the near-total indifference I received overall. Nobody paid me any mind. I could walk the streets of the city any time of the day or night, unmolested. Like James Baldwin in Paris, I was left alone to be me. And even though I sincerely despised Athens and thought very little of Greeks in general (truthfully, few expats did; most of them sat around complaining about how horribly rude Athenians were), I still felt grateful to be there in spite of the obscene pollution, in spite of the killer heat, the flies, the poverty, the drugs (Athens had and still has an outrageously bad heroin problem) and the cold shoulder I got from Greeks.

But there were other issues. A strong sense of Greek chauvinism persisted, particularly in tavernas and night-clubs, where even a Scottish friend of mine was bodily thrown out of. A German guy stupid enough to seduce a young woman in Crete found himself stoned and hurled off a cliff. Greek madams and pimps back then had a policy of generally blocking non-Greeks {read: non-whites} from Greek prostitutes. And I did get a sense of what Greek police were capable of doing to foreigners when in the proper mood: that same year (1994), a black South African friend of mine showed me horrific scars on his forehead that some sadistic Greek officers had given him.

After 1999, when Apostolos Apostolou and Pandelis Kazakos went on a rampage in Athens killing a Georgian (George Godesiani) and wounding immigrants from Ghana, Egypt, Pakistan and Bangladesh, the xenophobia in that country began to climb through the roof. I remember being called a “nigger” by some dipshit Arab racist near Omonia Square that year (the first time I heard that word uttered in Greece) and some other encounters in night-clubs that seriously pissed me off. The night-club encounters were a manifestation of a more subtle yet no less lethal form of racism: young Greek girls were seeking out “primitive”-looking black men fresh off the boats. If that sounds funny to you remember that racism in Europe often takes on strange forms. Many European women are sexually fascinated with Africans whom they can look down on and slum with. (Actually, this is an American thing, too. Check out Calvin C. Hernton’s book SEX AND RACISM IN AMERICA where he talks about the Greenwich Village scene of the early sixties and the interracial “love” that used to go down there.)

By 2002, I had had enough. The racism had gotten to the point where I could hear myself being called “mavro” (Greek for black) several times a day. While there was also a concomitant cultural detente between open-minded Greeks (those who didn’t have any real problems dealing with blacks) there were a lot of ugly incidents in which white as well as Asian tourists had begun to jump on the Negrophobic bandwagon. One British bitch snarled something about “niggers” while standing outside a youth hostel, apparently delighted that “mavro” apparently meant the same thing. Some chickenshit Chinese tourist saw me walking behind her and became horrified at my presence and nervously clutched her bag beside her. Athens had become another New Orleans and I wasn’t fucking having it.

The final straw came when a so-called “friend” of mine–half-Liberian, half-Lebanese–put a knife to my throat and demanded my laptop. When I refused he slashed me across the face. I kicked him in the balls SEVEN times but he was so zonked on PCP it didn’t even affect him. The sonofabitch held me up for 600 Euros. I had him arrested after he pocketed my money (which was never returned) and he was imprisoned for a short while, then released. While waiting on the ferry to get back to the Greek mainland, three fucking greaseballs threatened to kick my ass while I was sleeping and I had to pull out my pepper spray on them.

The next day I was on a plane heading for Berlin. I have not bothered to return to that shit-hole, and from what I know of Athenians and their disgustingly rude and childish behavior, they largely brought all of their miseries on themselves. What did Greeks expect when they spent so much time goofing off in tavernas with a fucking frappe under their fat noses while Sri Lankans, Pakistanis and other “mavri” washed their dishes and hosed down the jism from their whorehouse/hotel rooms? That these clowns are now crying for fascism seems logical given their basic inability to think though shit logically.

And as for my Lebanese-Liberian “friend,” he became a drug dealer, then a heroin addict. The last I heard of him, his badly decomposed body was found in one of those dusty rat-trap/bordellos that pass for hotel rooms in the junk-ridden Vathis Quarter of backstreet Athens.

I can't relax in Greece

29/06/14

By IOS GROUP: Tasos Kostopoulos, Anta Psarra, DimitrisPsarras

ios@efsyn.gr

[…]

golden-dawn-salute Group Nazi salute at a gathering of the organization

Of particular interest was the reaction of Golden Dawn to the photographic revelations. […] Without disputing any of the photos, the organization, in its unsigned announcement further claimed that “these photographs, had been in their possession since September of 2013 and they chose to release them today, in June of 2014”. Thus, up to this point, the only thing they chose to respond to with these revelations, was the fact that the photographs are old, implying that, since Michaloliakos and Pappas posed with swastikas, their Nazi beliefs have changed. Of course the organization avoided commenting on the three very recent photographs, in which Pappas was shown giving the Nazi salute over Mussolini’s grave and a group of Golden Dawn members, led by Kassidiaris, holding the flag of the Nazi Wehrmacht…

View original post 1,495 more words

The Caucasian Kakistocracy (1)

Or: Being White as an Alibi to Fuck Around

Part One of Two

Former CIA director John O. Brennan brought up a strange word when referencing the Mr. Magoo-like incompetence of the Trump Administration. “Your kakistocracy is collapsing after its lamentable journey,” Brennan tweeted to the Orange Orangutan. It was far, far from being the first time the word was brought up; it had been referenced several times over the past three centuries, even in reference to McClownald. So what the hell is a kakistocracy, then?

Me being the guy I am, I’m tempted to conflate “kak-” with “cauc” or “cac.” You can call it “racist” if you feel like it. It is not racist ressentiment on my part, simply calling a spade a spade–or if you want to go there, a honky a honky. So-called “White” people have no reason to whine about it because in actual fact, any thinking “White” person really should not consider themselves “White” in the first place. You are a European or Mediterranean or Asian. Yeah, I know it’s a force of habit, just like calling yourself “Black” when your skin is really golden brown or mahogany. But all of this is beside the point. The real point is: what the hell is a kakistocracy?

A random Googling of the term brings up “a system of government which is run by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous citizens”. One can go further and say that a kakistocracy is an entire civilization and culture run by the worst, least qualified, and most unscrupulous, perverted, inept, vulgar, meretricious, ignorant, lazy, uncreative and just plain fucking stupid people.

Sorry to burst your bubbles, but this is exactly what we are living in at this very moment. It is idle to say that the bullshit began with Trump, or Dubya, or even Warren G. Harding. Most of the world has been living under a Caucasian kakistocracy for the past five centuries.

We all know that Europeans and their descendants consider themselves “White,” which is really not the same thing as being Caucasian, since so-called “white” skin (which can range from pale rose to a yellowish-brown olive) in and of itself carries no deep meaning; like other shades of skin tones it’s just a color. So just as rosy skin doesn’t make you some fucking holy man (as if that ubiquitous portrait of Cesare Borgia that we see hanging everywhere was really Jesus Himself), it also doesn’t make you The Devil. It’s not in your genes, in other words–it’s in your head. The rest is solipsism.

In fact the very notion of “Whiteness” itself is profoundly solipsistic–no, scratch that. It is idiotic. We have gone over this road before and so there is no point in wasting too many words about it. Centuries and centuries of racialist fantasies, starting with their Near-Eastern and Mediterranean origins and climaxing with the racist autism of Adolf Hitler, the alt-Right and Jared Taylor, there was and is nothing progressive about being “White,” just as there really isn’t anything progressive about being “Black,” believe it or not. The significance of Blackness makes sense only in opposition to the significance of Whiteness. Black (that is, Africanness) was not considered “sinful” or “ugly” or “evil” or “deformed” until the appearance of White. (This explains why pro-Black, pork-chop cultural nationalism always winds up eating its own tail, for any attempt to find significance in a degraded condition created by the White oppressor himself–since Black is a condition created by the colonizer, not by the African, Aboriginal or Dravidian Indian–ends in total failure.)

“White” (as we all know or should know) came into existence in the West purely as a reactionary and exclusionary identity against the entirety of the non-white, non-Aryan human race. “White” is the ultimate caste system, one that trumps all other social, economic, political and intellectual concerns. If some toothless old redneck showed up to use the bathroom at a Starbucks in Portland or Philadelphia, the barista would not bat an eyelash–there would be no question of him having the honor of using one of their beloved toilets. The same rule naturally does not apply to a black lawyer or perhaps even the black ex-president of the United States. After all, both are Black, with a capital B. So automatically the toothless redneck stinking of piss and unwashed ass trumps the well-scrubbed and well-healed black upper-middle-class gentleman–or Barack Obama.

The real meaning of what happened at Starbucks a few weeks ago, or the meaning of what happened to the Hart Family some months ago, or what happened when Nikolas Cruz strode into a Florida high school some weeks before and shot up 17 students, or when Stephen Paddock butchered over 50 people in Las Vegas, or when some scumbag, Mr. Affluenza himself–Ethan Couch–was spared prison even after having committed murder, flew over the heads of most people–even so-called “Black” people. The real meaning was perfectly clear to me, however.  The white race, in America, as a whole functions as a kakistocracy, made up of irresponsible, clueless schmucks who feel that having rosy skin places them above reproach.

So you have a “white” skin, so-called? Great. You’re in safe hands, sort of. “You are rich because you are white,” Fanon has written, “and you are white because you are rich.” Full stop–nothing else really matters. Never mind the old adage that “with great power, comes great responsibility”–the Caucasian Kakistocracy doesn’t give a shit about “responsibility” and never has. The old elite of Europe, before it had fully formulated its notions of racial superiority and inferiority*, showed little responsibility to most members of their own race–this, prior to Portuguese colonialism or even The Crusades. Truthfully, the old European elite viewed themselves as being of a different race than those they held in serfdom throughout the European continent. (Surprisingly, the same holds true today to a limited extent–especially in Italy, and above all in Naples, where the Neapolitan elite views the street-level white Neapolitan as a mau mau.“)

Worldwide colonialism changed all that. Now the old European peasants are part of a larger global Kakistocracy by virtue of having a precious “white” skin. A “white” man from Romania may be nothing in Italy but that will change the moment he lands in Burkina Faso or South Africa, or even the United States. In a bourgeois society (which of course includes so-called “Communist” and “socialist” societies such as North Korea, Cuba, China and Venezuela) everyone not in the elite bourgie class strives (to some extent) to emulate the values, mores and prejudices of the bourgie class. The bourgie class is “White,” of course. (This naturally explains why every attempt on the part of Western societies to implement “multiculturalism” has resulted not in true racial harmony but some sort of grotesque pecking order where, nationally and globally speaking, the ones on the top are naturally White Americans and Europeans.)

So it should come as no surprise as to why Chinese petty-bourgeois would put such an unnecessary premium on whiteness, virtually to the point where being “white” in many parts of urban China is the closest thing to Godliness. (Or at least, the Chinese petty-bourgeois thinks or puts on that this is so.) It should be no question as to why women in India, Nigeria, Egypt and other “Third World” nations use skin lighteners by the ton. It should be no surprise that in virtually every country in the world (to quote Chester Himes) so-called “Black” people are considered “the shit of the earth.” Likewise, it should not shock anyone that a Nazi scumbag like Andrew Anglin (one of several) would manage to obtain a visa for Cambodia or Nigeria, or that David Duke managed to hold a teaching position in Damascus, Syria. (After all David Duke, like most Arabs and truthfully like most Americans anyway, really doesn’t like Jews.) A Cambodian official is not looking at Anglin’s political rap sheet; he’s looking at Anglin’s passport and above all, his skin. Anglin is a Nazi, but he is WHITE. He is the aristocrat, and as such, he can really do no wrong in the world at large.

God gave us the earth. We have dominion over the plants, the animals, the trees. God said, “Earth is yours. Take it. Rape it. It’s yours.”

–Ann Coulter, descendant of Irish famine immigrants and right-wing whack job

And aristocrats generally prefer the company of other aristocrats. Wannabe aristocrats prefer the company of aristocrats, naturally. Nothing is worse than a wannabe aristocrat, that poor creature who has all the aspirations of belonging yet does not measure up due to a mere “accident” of birth. So it comes as no surprise that some of the worst nigger-haters on the planet are other “niggers,” or Arabs, or Chinese, or Latinos, etc. or that those most vociferously opposed to “illegal immigration” (an absurd notion when you consider that virtually all European immigration to non-European nations was illegal to begin with) are, in fact, other Latinos. The White American himself does not feel entirely comfortable around any of them, of course; he’d rather interact with some German, Irish, Finnish or French immigrant than he would with his so-called “fellow African American.” This is because the immigrants, though they may not speak a lick of English, are white, and Northern European to boot. The White American may feel slightly less comfortable dealing with a swarthy Sicilian (more so than with an Italian immigrant from Milan) and considerably less comfortable dealing with a Chinese or Japanese immigrant, and still more uncomfortable dealing with somebody from Chile as opposed to somebody from Spain.

So, what then? The White Aristocrat is able to write off three quarters of humanity not because he has any burning desire to do so–not necessarily, anyway–but because his culture (like that of his forefathers) has rendered him incapable of truly seeing nuance in any other people or any other culture save their own. An aristocracy is exclusive, whether it is a Kakistocracy or not. Outside that White Aristocracy everyone else is either a romantic symbol, a stereotype, a cliche, a threat–or, more often than not, a cipher.

It is the ultimate in moral irresponsibility for a group of people that prides itself on running (or rather, ruining) the planet. When the whole of humanity is forced to toe an insane line of thought and action simply because some fat, blonde white sex-maniac insists that it is so, then something must change, and change quick. The needs of the many are far too precious to outweigh the needs of eight or nine white men who control literally half of the world’s wealth. In European text books the old aristocracies of France, Austria-Hungary, the Hapsburgs and others are shown for what they had become by the time they were destroyed–old, creaking monstrosities driven by perversion and greed, completely cut off not merely from the needs and concerns of their people but from their people, period. The very same holds doubly true for this current White Kakistocracy, which is cut off from virtually the entire human race.

Western historians teach us that when the masses of Paris descended upon Versailles and trashed the place, it was a “great moment in history.” It will never occur to these same Westerners that if the masses of people outside the White Kakistocracy descend upon downtown Manhattan or downtown Paris or London and loot it to the hilt, it would be virtually the same thing. We all remember the howls of outrage that rose up throughout the entire White world three years ago when millions of African and Asian refugees descended upon Europe. The Kakistocracy, as it typically does, played dumb and talked endlessly of “Eurabia” and “White Genocide” and all that crap.¹ They still do.²

This white, global aristocracy is so obsessively narcissistic they imagine that some thug from West-Side Chicago is actually oppressing them when he goes on a shooting rampage, rather than the other way around. The white aristocrat does not need to go on a shooting rampage; nothing is oppressing him but his own diseased mind. But he does it anyway: case in point, Stephen Paddock. Another case in point: Dylan Roof. Dylan Roof was not taken out gung-ho style like Tamir Rice or Stephon Clark. It is true that Clark was caught attempting to burglarize several cars before being shot for having a cellphone in his own backyard. Dylan Roof, on the other hand, guns down eight black people in a church in Charleston and while on the way to the police station, he is allowed a meal at McDonalds. Because, you know, killing eight niggers makes a young boy mighty hungry.

Yet another case in point is Nikolas Cruz, the poor, lonely, lost child who shoots 17 kids at a high school in Florida. Since he was not a “fucking Ay-rab” or a “Paki” or some “Black Identity Extremist,” he is not considered a terrorist but simply another misunderstood cat who suffered from extreme bullying. So you know, we, whites and wannabe whites, can empathize with the motherfucker to the point of sending him cash, love letters, nude pics and panties while he languishes in prison. (But Tanishia Covington? Hell, no.)

Slinging mud at far-right loonies like Paddock, Cruz and Roof is extremely easy. But when our liberal and leftist “friends” fuck up along these same lines, what can we say? The Hart family, pictured above, was the exact polar opposite of Jared Taylor and Company. Here we had a white lesbian couple from Seattle that had adopted six black and brown kids and reared them on their own. But on closer inspection we saw that these six kids merely existed as punching bags for these two white liberal lesbians’ self-aggrandizement. In other words, the kids were just there to make these white bitches feel good about themselves and the world.

No matter if these two bitches routinely beat, starved and punished these kids, insulted them with racial slurs or, even more humiliating, forced a couple of them to march out with signs offering hugs to cops (knowing full well it was a bullshit move) while the country was in an uproar over police brutality (not to mention Nazi infiltration of American law enforcement); their sociopathic behavior must have had some justification, however insane, since after all they were not only white but liberal lesbians who had adopted six black and brown children. Naturally the alt-right and their ilk has utilized this incident as an alibi to call out the “privileged” racism of the liberal-left. No comment; one doesn’t need to write any more books about the hyper-privileged racism of wealthy far-right demagogues such as Richard Spencer or the Koch Brothers or, for that matter, Donald Trump. Let them kill each other; they could hardly do worse to themselves what they now do to us. Of course they are still getting away with murder. Of course the level of national outrage at their behavior is nowhere near as high as it is for Bill Cosby³ and certainly not O.J. Simpson, whom the white majority considers to be Satan incarnate.

Harvey-Weinstein
Harvey Weinstein goes into rehab for his ogreish behavior, while “America’s Dad” gets the can for less

The entire incident reveals a genuine rottenness at the heart of white liberalism; even though it is just one particularly outrageous incident, it is really of a piece with how white liberalism functions in regards to non-whites, especially blacks. In fact, the whole Hart Family incident can be read as white, Western liberalism in a nutshell. “Whites,” whether left or right, Northern or Southern, Eastern or Western, rich or poor, understand “Love” as a one-way street in which the whole of humanity is bowing at its altar, endlessly mimicking their twisted value system, speaking their language in their own particular “white” way. And in turn, these “whites” can only “love” us if we conform to their ridiculous expectations.

This “Love” of theirs is full of exceptions, conditions and caveats which contradict themselves at every single turn. It is so exasperating and demoralizing in the long run that one wonders whether this kakistocratic “Love” is actually more lethal than their well-known “hate.” “White” so-called Christians (as well as Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Wiccans, agnostics and atheists) speak to the world about “unconditional love” while at the same time drawing up an insane laundry list of expectations and demands that the entire planet (including themselves) must abide by in order to receive the “Love” of a white, Western Kakistocrat. That “Love” manifests itself naturally in government grants, fellowships, aid packages, job hirings, job promotions–every conceivable thing under the sun that the non-white individual either wants or needs, right down to a simple phone number from a white woman or man in a crappy pick-up bar.

Yeah, we already know that fact–or at least, we know it, but we don’t want to think about it too much because too many of us who are not of the Kakistocracy actually need to jump through these goddamned hoops merely to survive–much less pick up some chick (or dude) in a singles bar. This won’t happen to our member of the Caucasian Kakistocracy. Slob or no slob, punk or no punk, beta or no beta, he is–in the eyes of too many willfully blind folk–the ultimate Alpha Male. Sexual attractiveness and financial status have little to do with it, of course, for even the most pathetic white “incel” (involuntary celibate, for those not familiar with this kind of talk) is still “Alpha” socially, politically, and economically. All he needs to do is stop feeling sorry for himself. For at the end of the day, this self-emasculated “incel” is still white.

He can walk the streets of his own neighborhood without fear of being pulled over by cops. He sit down inside a goddamned Cracker Barrel–this, assuming that it’s actually worth the time to even go to a Cracker Barrel–and not be forced out. He can use the esteemed crappers of Starbucks or Denny’s and not face the prospect of arrest. What–him worry? Worry about what? Even when everybody puts him down, even when non-white males insult and ridicule him, call him “honky,” etc., the “honky” laughs inside because he knows that his social “inferiors” are simply letting off steam before returning to their proper place, to pick his cotton, shine his shoes and suck his wiener.

Being called a “honky” won’t lead to him losing his position at the top of the totem pole. His throne is safe for now. He is still worshiped–or has the illusion of being worshiped–in China, India and South America, even if he is a fat, toothless old git. She is still worshiped (or thinks she is) in Kenya, Morocco, Jamaica even if she is a fat, stinky pile of rotting flesh. After all they’re white and white means money. This doesn’t necessarily mean that the majority of the world’s people like them–on the contrary, most of the world hates them, but since they have money, power, prestige, all the trappings of the Great White (Western) Aristocracy they are far more inclined to get a pass for their honkyshines.°

*

So, now we know. The truth of it all is unbearable, insupportable. That is: in a white kakistocracy there simply is no Equality, no Liberty and Justice for All; it’s just idle talk. But there are hierarchies within hierarchies, and the Kakistocracy is no exception. It has never been enough within White Society merely to just be white: this is only true in opposition to those who aren’t white! Left to their own devices, the Europeans simply revert back to their age-old feudal/ethnic hatreds of each other. (The entire history of Germany is a perfect case in point.)

The lower end of the settler’s aristocracy shoulders the upper end. This lower end is still somewhat bourgeois, right down to the lowliest hick in an Appalachian trailer park. But the hick is pissed off because he finds that the weight he carries is simply too much for him to handle. The hick’s ancestors came to America hoping that they, too would one day be Great White Aristocrats. It didn’t happen–not the way he had hoped.

In America, the affluent white Anglo-Saxon can afford to play at being a liberal or even a leftist. When we see this man, all smiles, cotton-candy and hamburgers, we can’t help but feel that as a member of the White Class, he is but the flip side of the resentful white ethnic with her Madonna on the front porch and Polish/Italian/Erin-go-bragh flag flapping in the breeze. One can’t help but feel that if this same Anglo-Saxon were living in some Kentucky shithole, he’d be just as bigoted as Billy Ray, or a little shit like Harley Barber (Barbera). Miss Barbera is pissed off because Big Whitey (Anglo-Saxon) never handed her ass a proper crown yet. She is all of a piece with Bubba and Billy Ray next door with their Jack Daniels and rebel flag. The white crown they wear is a tarnished, hand-me-down one–one reserved for the wops, shanty micks, white spics, polacks and redneck trailer trash.

There’s never enough room at the top in any caste system. The rank-and-file, lower-middle-class white man increasingly finds himself in an economically precarious situation through relentless downsizing; having to shelve his master’s degree while he hunts for a shit job at Walmart; and failing that, he faces homelessness, decades of sexual frustration and settling for the mere luxury of being white in a neoliberal Western culture that is increasingly thinning its high class ranks. And being white but somewhat disgraced (for ethnic or class reasons) the “hick” is at least given the “Liberty” of punching down on the totem pole–as New York City police officers or the Hell’s Angels. Or Dylan Roof. Or even–God forbid–a disgruntled, antisocial millionaire white supremacist like the late Stephen Paddock.

___________________________________

 

*Re: Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome. We witness the birth of hardcore Western racism not in Abbasid Baghdad, or Aryan India, but the Late Roman Empire, when the Romans’ fear and hatred of outsiders reached the point of homicidal and genocidal mania. Just before the sacking of Rome by Alaric in 410 AD, the Romans had already had an obsessively inflated view of themselves as “Romans” being superior to non-Romans, but Germanic incursions into Roman borders had erased the Romans’ sense of security and well-being and threw them into panic mode. Much like today, where the descendants of both Romans and Goths cower together on Cape Europe, in horror of the “niggers” and “towelheads” below and beside them. 

¹The European right loves to sling arrows at Angela Merkel, whom they imagine has gotten in bed with the fucking Ayatollah of Iran. Mind you this is the same Angela Merkel who proclaimed the multicultural experiment to be a “failure.” No shit, Sherlock. A society predicated upon upholding exclusively “White” standards as The Only Way is incapable of becoming genuinely multiracial or even socially equal. By default, anything “Black” is going to wind up in the social shitter.

²The Swedish Far Right imagines that Sweden is “dead.” No: only their idea of Sweden appears to be dead, when in fact it is quite alive. The Arabs and Africans on the bottom of Swedish society, leery of mimicking the stilted, stolid and pedantic mannerisms of the Swedish people (themselves a massive white Global Elite), instead turned inward and against each other, and ultimately against a society that judged them as trash from the start. The hegemony of Islamic extremism was simply a ready-made alternative to the antiseptic nightmare of bourgeois Swedishness. It is not, never has been and never will be representative of anything progressive or humane. But the Islamic far-right (like the Nation of Islam in the USA) was on hand for these alienated black and brown youth when the so-called “Left” was not. 

³As I write this, Bill Cosby, America’s Dad, PhD and all, is on his way to prison. He will most likely die there. Harvey Weinstein, Roman Polanski, Donald Trump and innumerable cops and old Klansmen who beat, tortured and killed “niggers” during and after the Civil Rights movement are still free.

°Sometimes the honkyshines are welcomed. There is actually a group of American Negroes who have sexualized their own self-contempt and white-worship, and have allowed white Nazis to beat them up, put them in cages and force them to eat dog food or dog-shit, holding up signs with racial slurs or swastikas on them, etc. Some of these revolting pics can be seen online. (Of course one can also see the reverse in guilt-ridden white male “cucks” who allow themselves to be raped in the ass by big black thugs, but these are really two flip sides of the same coin. Scratch a sadist and you will find a masochist, and vice versa. At bottom neither the white sex-sadists nor the white sex-masochists think they are dealing with their social equals, but with their social and biological inferiors.)

I Repeat: DARE TO BE UNJUST!

Note: I have noted the deathly silence on this blog’s activities after posting a picture and a quote from the late Romain Rolland, author of the massive roman-flevue “Jean-Christophe.” The quote was taken from the novel.

I placed the quote there for an obvious reason. Yeah, Monsieur Rolland was a white Frenchman, a good friend of Gandhi (well-known racist and flip-flopper) and Rabindrath Tagore (who wasn’t). That’s not the point. The author does not indulge in white worship either on this blog or elsewhere nor does he do it in his private life. The reason why I posted the quote is because it is entirely relevant to what people, especially black people, need to do now.

Rolland writes: “There is an age in life when we must dare to be unjust, when we must make a clean sweep of all admiration and respect got at second-hand, and deny everything truth and untruth everything which we have not of ourselves known for truth. Through education, and through everything that he sees and hears about him, a child absorbs so many lies and blind follies mixed with the essential verities of life, that the first duty of the adolescent who wishes to grow into a healthy man is to sacrifice everything.

The point is perfectly clear. Writing from a contemporary perspective, it’s obvious that there are too many people, including far far too many black people, who get all their values, their knowledge about the world and themselves second-hand. With Afro-Americans in particular, we are still so deeply infested with this idiotic colonial mentality that some of us are even willing to pretend to our white masters that our oppression doesn’t really exist, that it’s just an illusion. Which explains why the late Stephon Clark went to his death thinking that his children (from some Vietnamese woman, whom I’m not going to talk about) were “not black,” that he himself wanted nothing whatever to do with “black.” Or why his brother Stevante was willing to put on a ridiculous coon act in front of the entire nation, to the point of landing himself in jail. It also explains why Melissa DePino, a white woman who captured the entire Starbucks flap on video, was far more willing to call the incident for what it was–blatantly racist–than the very victims themselves.

Rashon Nelson and Donte Robinson sit on ABC News with their attorney, their blank faces staring back at us, carefully censoring their true feelings before the white majority audience–as if mouthing bland platitudes about “standing up” and “this is a people issue” will take the national heat off them. The heat is on them because they are black, of course. It does not matter if they have been victimized or not. Like the ridiculous Stevante Clark, both Mr. Nelson and Mr. Robinson were perfectly willing to settle for a wad of cash in exchange for their dignity. Now if either of these three were willing to take the cash and leave Trumpland, it would make perfect sense. I do not know what either Nelson or Robinson intend to do with their cash and it’s none of my business. But we all know what Stevante Clark intended to do with his because he made himself plain with his goofy-ass behavior.

Unfortunately, Stevante Clark was not the only victim of fascist police thuggery to trade in his dignity for a few pieces of tarnished gold.

Every single stupid thing that we do when it comes to dealing with the white world stems from the fact that we still see white people (and to a lesser extent other non-blacks) as our superiors. We think that no matter how horribly the planet treats us, we still must make believe that our ill-treatment really isn’t so bad. So some white guy kicked you in the ass on the metro, spat on you and called you a nigger? Well, okay. Not a big deal. In fact, maybe the white guy was just angry over something else, and was just taking it out on me. Don’t even bother to ask yourself why he chose YOU, of all people, to vent his disgust on. Don’t bother to ask yourself why much of the world thinks you’re a walking spittoon simply because you’re an African. Laugh. Smile. And above all, love.

Love is the key, isn’t it? Why, sure it is. We’ve heard that old line before. The only goddamned problem is that you never bothered to ask yourself where you got those words from. Who? Your mother? Your father? Some random book, or some friend of yours? And did you bother to ask yourself precisely what “Love” is? Is it a one-way or a two-way street? Is it conditional?

From what any damn fool can see, the “Love” we share with our white overlords clearly comes with a huge laundry list of strange clauses. The most notable clause is from the Bible. Do Unto Others As They Would Do Unto You. Well, then. How do “Others” do unto us, anyway? Ever thought about that? You read the fucking Bible and the damn thing tells you “Love Thy Neighbor.” Okay, then. Your white, Asian, Hispanic, Arab, African or self-hating American colored neighbor hates your damn guts for no good reason. This is how shit happens in the real, everyday world, sir. So what do you do, then? Do you come to this hate-filled neighbor with a love he refuses to show you, preferably with a Bible or Koran in hand? Or do you return the favor, since–as that clause itself would amply illustrate–you should Do Unto Others As They Would Do Unto You?

The other clause (and far more sinister and unspoken) is: you, negro, must love me no matter what, even if I don’t love you. Therefore your honky neighbor has a right to scrawl racist shit all over your car and you must forgive him (or her). The honky will probably get probation, but if you curse at him you might get shot on a technicality, either by the honky or by the cops (who are probably the honky’s friend). The real point I am trying to make is that everything you think you know about love, about forgiveness, about respect, about being an American or being (for that matter) “Black,” you learned it second-hand. You show America a begrudging respect (and your own folk a routine and calculated disrespect) not merely because you are afraid, but because it has been drummed into your head from birth that you belong at the tail end of the bread line because of your ethnicity and color, democracy be damned. Yet at the same token it’s also been drummed into your head that this is your country and that this is a democracy and that you are an integral part of it. So, then–why the fuck do you think belong at the end of the national bread line? And if you are at the end of the fucking bread line, getting everybody’s leftovers every passing decade, why do you still call it a “democracy?” Something is clearly wrong here, but what do you think of all that?

Deep down, you (Afro-American) think you are at fault for all the bad things that are happening in the world. Never mind that you don’t have a goddamned stake in running things, and NO, it’s not because you’re “inferior”–whatever the fuck that means. After all there is a thin line between a man who thinks himself to be inferior (and acts the part out of some sick Pavlovian syndrome) and a man who actually is inferior and thinks himself to be superior–not because the inferior man is genetically deficient or lacks the necessary melanin to build a Great Pyramid, but because this inferior man’s inflated sense of white self makes him feel that his color alone is enough to make him feel superior. Had this superior white man walked in your shoes for a single month (much less a lifetime) you can rest assured his high IQ score would plummet by several dozen points after the first week.

The whole country right now is screeching like drunken magpies about arch-rapist Bill Cosby, while forgetting that their President Sideswipe is pushing humanity towards World War Three. If you ask me, I’d rather have Quaaludes in my coffee and fingers in my crotch than global radiation poisoning. (We only have one planet, after all.) That’s not to say that Cosby is a saint. Bill Cosby is simply the by-product of the same decadent, money-grubbing, hypocritical, neoliberal, capitalist, bourgeois culture that spawned Donald Trump, Jeff Sessions, Roy Moore and the rest of them. That culture is completely antithetical to all true moral values, all sense of right and wrong, everything beautiful, everything positive, and anything even remotely natural and healthy.

Yet you abide by the fake values of this culture and even pledge love for the promoters of this shitty culture without even thinking about it. You go to a Starbucks or a Denny’s or a Cracker Barrel with the intent of eating or drinking their shitty, chemically saturated food. Okay, you dig this funky “food.” You have every right in the world to eat there and to challenge to any degree those who would insist that you have no right to eat at Cracker Barrel, or Denny’s, or Starbucks–the police included. But your eating there puts money back into the pockets of the same schmucks who are kicking your ass, while at the same time, very slowly ruining your health.

There is something very childish about this kind of behavior. It’s typically American, and black Americans are definitely no exception. The average American spends his entire life in some painfully protracted adolescence, blindly believing everything he has been taught and living what James Baldwin has called “the unexamined life”–a life which, he hastened to add, was not worth living. I’m assuming that your average Afro-American is equally adolescent, if in his head if not in his body. You have millions of black men who have prioritized a cheap piece of ass over everything in the world because they imagine that some oozing vagina (or asshole) will make up for their basic lack of manhood–and millions of black women who imagine a blonde weave will give them the womanhood they never had. And why?

Virtually none of them can think for themselves. Very, very few of them will stand back from the chaos that is their society and say, “I won’t accept it.” It’s not enough for an individual rejection of the American insanity; there must be a collective effort to reject the insanity. But whether this rejection will actually take place within Black America is another question entirely.