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

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

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

As for this bitch–let’s do the math.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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…And Still, They Voted NOT to Impeach this Idiot.

So The House has decided not to impeach the Orange Orangutan, after all.

Now we know–after months and months of Democrats and assorted “Independents” screaming about how “psychopathic,” “racist” and “dangerous to the world” it∗ is–that they, our self-proclaimed “real leaders,” are just as worthless, psychopathic and dangerous as the Orangutan. With all the evidence at their feet concerning Trump’s bullshit, The House of Representatives has decided not to impeach.

Brilliant.

It’s over, folks–the country has just signed its fucking death warrant.

And frankly, I don’t feel like talking about it anymore, because nobody is listening. Nobody has listened to a damn thing any of us has been saying for over two years. Nobody listened before the election, or during the election, and they are not listening now. They raised no stink, for instance, when Bernie Sanders was casually pushed aside in favor of Hillary Clinton (another monster, and for whom we can blame much of the Libya disaster on). I realize now that Bernie Sanders was no socialist, that he was already quite old (and the task of running that country would have probably killed him, as it did more than a few presidents), and that his leftism was wafer-thin (the man supports Israel, which is morally insupportable by any standard and for very obvious reasons). But a vote for Sanders would have been a vote against Armageddon.

James Baldwin himself voted for Jimmy Carter. He said emphatically that his vote was not an endorsement of the man, but a vote against the Final Solution. Unlike today’s phony so-called “Black” intellectuals, he understood the true nature of White American (settler) Manifest Destiny and that it was almost entirely predicated upon violence–violence pushed against whatever enemies that White Americans happened to conjure up at any given moment. To White Americans, any group of people became an enemy if their skins were too dark or if they (and perhaps more importantly) held a world view and a system of reality that was at loggerheads with their own. Hence, Black, Native, Latino Americans, gays, Communists, leftist Jews (not right-wing Shylocks like Ben Shapiro, Milo and David Cole), Muslims, Chinese (before 1930) and the Japanese during World War Two have been more or less on the Klan’s enemies list. The Japanese were removed after their defeat in World War Two but made very brief reappearances in the seventies and eighties because of Murka’s failing auto industry.

Even so, the Japanese were never really at the top of Uncle Sammy’s list. The Blacks, aka niggers, coons and monkeys, always were, but the Negro intellectual can’t deal with this reality. He or she prefers to forget reality. The next eight years will probably change that, but I doubt it, at this point; this fool will probably go to Dachau with a bayonet at his back, singing “We Shall Overcome” in the boxcars.

The rest of the country, of course, is equally clueless.

It’s no use recalling that it merely took a tawdry sex scandal (something Americans love; it’s in their blood, and goes back to the good old days of the ridiculous Salem Witch Trials of the mid-1600s) for Congress to impeach former President Bill Clinton twenty years ago. And it’s no use telling people that the mindset of Congress then is scarcely different than the mindset of Congress today. Many of the same Congressmen and women from the 1990s are still there and still basking in the limelight of political and moral mediocrity. Their minds have not changed: apparently a cum-stained dress carries more moral significance than the long rap sheet of a fat bastard who made his mark as a slum-lord and swindler, whose psychopathic tendencies are well known, whose racism, sexism and antisemitism are well-known (though people insist that he himself is not, that he is merely surrounded by racists, Jew-haters and jocks who are pulling his string). Apparently the shaky testimony of Paula Jones–a supremely ugly woman not worthy even of a hillbilly like Mr. Clinton–carries more weight than a very clear recording of Trump boasting about his ability to freely stick his hand in women’s crotches. It’s not hyperbole. Why?

Today, the Orange Orangutan has declared that Jerusalem is indeed the capital of Israel. This is a supremely stupid move–no, scratch that. It is just fucking retarded. Even American Jews (for the most part) are upset. And virtually the entire Middle East–except, of course, for the Israeli leadership and the reactionaries on the streets (of whom there are quite a few)–is up in arms about Trump’s idiotic decision.

The speech he has just given is garbled and semi-coherent, at an junior-high school level and spoken with his usual ugly Bronx accent. The White House explained it away as “dry throat.” I’ve had dry throat and I know what it sounds like. Trump’s speech sounds like he was on a four-day bender. (Which he probably is, with a pile of fries and Filet O’ Fish sammiches piled up all around him.) A number of psychologists have stated that Trump exhibits clear signs of psychosis and delusions of grandeur, and that he is sociopathic and lacks empathy, and that he is perfectly capable of doing something rash enough to take us all off the planet. So why hasn’t be been impeached?

Trump hasn’t been impeached by the House because, to be blunt, the powers-that-be want him there. They want an authoritarian state. And not just paleoconservative nuts like Jeff Sessions but even a fair share of self-proclaimed “liberals”–you know, those Democrats who voted “Nay” in opposition to impeachment–as well. I suspect that Americans, collectively, have either become so indifferent to how bleak their future will be that they allowed this buffoon to get as far as he has gotten in politics–or they are so full of guilt and remorse over what America has become these past few decades–integrated neighborhoods, the so-called “Sexual Revolution,” a freer press, abortion rights, gay bathhouses, porno stores and Pakistani immigrants–that they have quietly allowed the Klan to creep further and further into center political stage.

Likewise, the powers-that-be will light a torch under the ass of Bill O’Reilly for a short while but he will be allowed back into the fold. Roy Moore, the cowboy, Bible-thumping pedophile, the Alabama Ape, is still running for office; Rick Ross, the Molly Man, the decadent, obese King Kong of Shit Hop, is still turning out generic rap hooks; Sean Hannity, a McCarthyite reject (and also accused of sexual harassment) is still on Fox. Al Franken, essentially a harmless prankster (and liberal) has to step down because apparently, the powers-that-be think that what he did far outweighs anything Hannity, Moore, Ross or Trump has ever done.

Harvey Weinstein has scumbag stamped on his forehead in bright neon letters as far as I’m concerned. I’ve heard the audio of him attempting to grope an Italian-Filipino model and it speaks for itself. Weinstein is garbage, but he’s the Democrat’s garbage. He’s the kind of bloke who gives millions to the Democratic Party when he can, which is often. Had he been a Republican one wonders if he would have received the same treatment.

Likewise, with Dustin Hoffman, Charlie Rose and the like. I’m not going to sit here and defend sexual harassment because I myself have been sexually harassed  as a youth, and mostly by men. It happened in high school, and again at Howard University. These men didn’t give a shit if I wasn’t gay; they saw me as another small guy, with a cute baby face that–in their minds–spelled “pushover.” All of this is beside the point.

This new mania to out prominent people for sexual harassment can not conceal its true intentions by catching a few conservatives and hard-righters in its net. You know something is extremely wrong, politically and culturally, in that country when we slide very easily from accusing Bill Cosby and Harvey Weinstein for things they most likely did do¹ to demanding that certain works of art be removed from galleries because they are too “sexually provocative.” And from there we very well could slide into snatching certain books off the shelves that offend the delicate sensibilities of bourgeois white, Christian women, arguably the worst sexual hypocrites history has ever known.² It does not matter if the morality police operate from the Left or the Right, for both sides are caught up in the increasingly totalitarian zeitgeist. It’s the Great Depression, all over again.

The American morality police never left the historical stage–or to be more precise, they never left the building; they merely went into the dressing room during these past five decades and now they are coming out again, shoulder to shoulder with (even if ideologically in opposition to) the alt-right.

Remember: there was more than one evil dictator during the last Great Depression. There was Stalin in addition to Uncle Adolph. Adolph (and Mussolini) simply took most of the limelight. Stalin was just cannibalizing from the far left; he was no less of a prig, no less of a moral cop, no less of a manipulator and certainly no less of a racist than the Austrian teppichfresser.

But then again, it may take an overemotional fuck-up like Trump–one of White Supremacy’s own–to bring down the whole rotten superstructure that we currently live under now. The system is unsustainable for most of us on this planet, and as far as anyone can see no one really has the balls OR the ovaries to seriously challenge this monstrosity. We don’t even go for economic boycotts anymore, let alone revolutionary uprisings, so we have put ourselves in the position of having to let the snake eat its own tail.

 

∗I really have a hard time believing that this idiot is actually human.

¹There’s no question of Weinstein’s guilt, and in light of what’s been happening these past two months maybe Cosby isn’t so innocent after all. But historically speaking, when Americans start shrieking accusations of rape against people, it is more than a little bit like the little boy who cried Wolf. Usually the Wolf is a Negro.

²Besides, of course, Wahhabi fundamentalists.

The Obscene Barbarism of Racist Libya, in Pictures

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

Announcement Concerning “Nate” Reissue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean in this war?”

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

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

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

“Me?”

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

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

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

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

“But what if they told you to?”

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

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

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

“Even the kids?”

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

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

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

Huge explosions rocked the earth beneath our boots.

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

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

“Who threw that?” he hissed.

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

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

“Okay, let ‘er rip.”

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

It didn’t even take ten minutes.

*

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

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

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

White Racist Liberal Paternalism–in Blackface

(Part One of Two)

Patriarchy takes for granted that women are inferior and “the weaker sex,” as assholes used to refer to women decades before. The system of patriarchy is smug in its paternalism towards women. Patriarchs love to hold open doors for women and treat them with what they (patriarchs) imagine to be “respect.” “Respect and protect women,” they chant, like a bunch of crows perched on a tree branch. They love to talk of women being “queens” and how “strong” and “lovely” and “noble” and “fair” they are. They say women are romantic and emotional while men are visual and phallic, that women are from Venus while men are from Mars and all that crap. Actually, both are from planet earth but who cares? The language of patriarchy puts women on a pedestal that women themselves did not create.

The paternalistic language of patriarchy is highly indulgent and ever-adaptable. It is a shape-shifting chameleon, and therefore a dangerous language. Actually it has evolved to the point where self-proclaimed feminists can borrow extensively from it without their even realizing it. Feminists speak of their bodies being “sexualized” by “heterosexists,” of the “oppressive male gaze,” and so on. This is a white, Western middle-class concern, voiced in rhetoric that has precise roots in the blue-stocking language of Victorian social reformers, nearly all of whom were White, female (and largely racist) Anglo-Saxon Protestants. But today’s Social Justice Warrior does not do his or her research; in fact they do not read books at all unless they are schlock books by Amanda Hocking or Jonathan Safran Foer. They refuse to realize that when they express shock and horror at the expression of overt sexuality they are walking in the high-laced shoes of Carrie Nation, Anthony Comstock and their ilk.

These modern-day Victorian social reformers will never admit to themselves that their rejection of sexuality (especially heterosexuality) is heavily tinged with racism. It is the exact same racism of their late 19th century American ancestors, who were horrified that newly-freed black male slaves were now free to put their hands on white women. These ancestors had once been Abolitionists and felt relatively safe in protesting the enslavement of Africans–safe, because he was in chains; because he was illiterate, and generally not in any position to challenge the authority of white Americans. But when he was freed he became a threat. Feminist Elizabeth Cady Stanton made her position clear in an oft-quoted statement from 1868:  “Think of Patrick and Sambo and Hans and Yung Tung who do not know the difference between a monarchy and a republic, who never read the Declaration of Independence or Webster’s spelling book, making laws for Lydia Maria Childs, Lucretia Mott, or Fanny Kemble.”¹

Of course, it probably never occurred to Ms. Stanton that Patrick the Mick, Sambo the Sambo, Hans the Kraut and Ching Chong simply did not think it worth their time “raising” themselves to the allegedly “high” Democratic cultural standard of the superior Anglo-Saxon Race. Today, her ideological descendants, many of whom are black, think that such a feat might still be worthwhile. Many of these black descendants are self-styled “feminists,” “feministas” and “New Black Men,” who are quite young and generally middle-class oriented. A lot of them are self-styled “Afropunks,” and though they are among the most privileged of all African Americans in light of their economic standing (and the willingness of the white Establishment to employ them), they often pretend to be at a social disadvantage vis-a-vis other black people–most especially “heterosexual black men.”

The writer is familiar with these kinds of privileged blacks because he attended high school and college with them. He knew (and still knows) a lot of them personally. So when someone such as Damon Young writes that “Straight Black Men” are the white men of Black America, he just rolls his eyes to the ceiling of his room and says, “here we go again.”

Yep, here we go again. There are no shortage of articles in print or on the internet that deal with this very same subject: the supposed savagery of the Black Male. I compiled such an enormous amount of data researching it that I decided to tackle the subject of Black Male Savagery from an entirely different historical context and in an entirely different nation: French Algeria.

“Beneath the patrilineal pattern of Algerian society,” Frantz Fanon writes, “the (French settler) specialists described a structure of matrilineal essence…The Algerian woman, an intermediary between obscure forces and the group, appeared in this perspective to assume a primordial importance. Behind the visible, manifest patriarchy, the more significant existence of a basic matriarchy was affirmed. The role of the Algerian mother, that of the grandmother, the aunt and the “old woman,” were inventoried and defined.

“This enabled the colonial administration to define a precise political doctrine: ‘if we want to destroy the structure of Algerian society, its capacity for resistance, we must first of all conquer the women; we must go and find them behind the veil where they hide themselves and in the houses where the men keep them out of sight.’ It was the situation of woman that was accordingly taken as the theme of action. The dominant administration solemnly undertook to defend this woman, pictured as humiliated, sequestered, cloistered…The behavior of the Algerian was very firmly denounced and described as medieval and barbaric. With infinite science, a blanket indictment against the ‘sadistic and vampirish’ Algerian attitude towards women was drawn up. Around the family life of the Algerian, the occupier piled up a whole mass of judgments, appraisals, reasons, accumulated anecdotes and edifying examples, thus attempting to confine the Algerian within a circle of guilt.”² (Italics mine)

If Fanon’s words sound eerily (and nauseatingly) familiar to an African American reader, that’s because they are familiar. Since the end of Reconstruction we have heard similar rhetoric not only from our avowed enemies but even from liberal and even left-leaning whites and blacks who call themselves our allies. From Elizabeth Stanton to Joel Chandler Harris to Charles Carroll to Robert Shufeldt to Susan Brownmiller to Alice Walker, Ann DuCille, Sapphire, Mark Anthony Neal, bell hooks, Bill Cosby, Cornel West, Kevin Powell and lately Barack Obama, Robert Lashley, Jemelle Harris and others we have heard variations on this same tiresome theme. It would be a waste of our time to trudge through all of their paternalistic nonsense–I invite the reader to do this independently–but to sum it all up their words toward black men (particularly heterosexual black men) can be summed up with a few words: stop acting like a nigger savage and act like we tell you to.

We are not that stupid. We know that VSB is a subsidiary of The Root, which in itself is a subsidiary of Univision, a white Cuban-American owned TV station. The Root is really rootless. (Univison pretends to be non-white whenever it has to deal with Dolt 45 and the alt-shite. When it deals with African Americans or Afro-Latinos, it puts on blackface and makes monkey noises.)

Although not entirely without merit, The Root has a long history of condescending to rank-and-file African Americans. Nearly ten years ago The Root was roasted by Ta-Nehisi Coates for insinuating that African Americans were an anti-intellectual people. The author of that article was right on many accounts but Mr. Coates was even more correct in calling the author into question. It was the same old black bourgeois condescension towards the unwashed black masses that we have been hearing for God knows how long, and quite frankly we are sick and tired of hearing it.

The “heterosexual black male” as seen by neoliberal society

We, the unwashed negroids, are surfeited with privileged blacks scribbling this stuff on high for Harper’s, or the Huffington Post, or from The Grio or The Root telling us to “clean up our act” and “pull up our pants” or some such shit. And in the case of Mr. Young–well, it isn’t so much what Damon Young said concerning allegedly heterosexual black men vis-a-vis “black people”–one wonders which “black people” he really has in mind–but how he said it, and how he framed his narrative concerning black machismo. He generalized about an entire subset of the American population and not-so-subtly stigmatized them as The Enemy.

It is white paternalism disguised as black brotherly advice. Damon Young talks of black heterosexism³ and “patriarchy,” parroting the language of the white liberal academy, which doesn’t give a shit about blacks one way or the other. The white liberal academy’s job is to make sure that African Americans are sufficiently divided and compartmentalized so that the white political establishment can manage them better. Some have suggested that Damon Young of Very Smart Brothas was being satirical. He isn’t being satirical; he is doing the white liberal’s dirty work, like Robert Lashley before him, and Mark Anthony Neal, Kevin Powell, Randall Kenan and countless others before that.

Mr. Young’s piece is getting accolades from wannabe black establishment writers who foolishly believe that this is actually a subject worth talking about. “I thought Damon did an excellent job tackling a difficult and complicated issue, and I was happy that he used his male privilege to help tell our stories,” a Dr. Kristian H. wrote in the Huffington Post. “Black women have not been allowed to be both Black and female. Historically, we have had to choose our race over our gender, and we have not had the space to express the challenges we face as women. We have not talked about our pain in order to protect our Black men’s dignity. We have not been able to be truly feminist, for fear that it disregards, or contradicts, our shared Blackness. We are so worried about the repercussions of discussing our issues with toxic masculinity that we ignore them.”

Of course, when Kristian H. says “we” she is referring to her own subset of black middle-class women who go through the same trauma and pain she describes. I’m not going to say that the pain is all in her head, but she is pointing to the wrong source of that pain. She can at least gently protest Damon Young’s whitewashing of “heterosexist” black men by saying his basic analogy is “divisive and hurtful,” but in her elite feminist angst she goes on a tear and contradicts herself: “You are not absolved of the responsibility of both acknowledging and uplifting your Black women. Black men have a heavy burden to bear, and you have been taught and conditioned that it is somehow acceptable to dump that burden on Black women. Black men have historically only had power over Black women, so you’ve made us suffer to help ease your pain. You have disrespected us, you have degraded us, you have silenced us. Yes, slavery, oppression, colonization, and dehumanization can take its toll on your psychological well-being. We get that you are in pain, we are too, and we want to support you. But being in pain is not an excuse to cause pain; we must stop the cycle of abuse.”

Kristian H. continues: “Black women are often harassed on the street by Black men who objectify our bodies,* and we are taught to be polite and smile to ensure our safety from a young age.º We are taught victim blaming, we internalize it, and we try to dress a certain way because only “respectable” women deserve respect. I am sorry, Damon’s piece is not dividing Black men and women; Black men are dividing us with their own actions, of their own accord. They are doing that when they refuse to date Black women. They are doing it when they call us aggressive, argumentative, or a feminist (which is apparently a bad word) for talking about these issues.” (Italics mine)

If I were white, I might believe Kristian H’s rant. But I am not. I can only remember my mother decades ago frequently putting my father firmly in his place whenever she felt he had said something she disagreed with. (I owe my razor-sharp tongue to my mother as well as my father, by the way.) I can only recall black women on the streets of Washington D.C. in the eighties, nineties and 2000s wearing skin-tight latex pants and not too worried about the “heterosexist male gaze;” if anything, they appeared to relish it. They made up the majority of black women in that city then and still do now. Kristian H. does not. She is a product of a fake white liberal academia that is so paternalist in outlook that it thinks it can not only manufacture our history and identity but also–absurdly enough–imagines it can dictate the exact terms of our own oppression to us.

*

Fanon himself has been accused of sexism on more than one occasion. Yet in spite of this we should listen carefully to Fanon’s words here, in light of Damon Young and Dr. Kristian H. We have seen all of this before and not just in America, not just in colonial Algeria. “Colonial society blazes up vehemently against this inferior status of the Algerian woman,” Fanon writes, and a French feminist-settler is quoted in the book as saying, “We want to make the Algerian ashamed of the fate that he metes out to his women.”

Today we know that the colonial French were completely full of shit. When Algerian women refused to fall for the bait, the French colonial patriarchs and matriarchs alike declared a “nigger-hunt.” After November 1, 1954 the French liberals and feminists decided that an Algerian was an Algerian, feminist, patriarch, gay, straight, light, dark, rich, poor, or otherwise. The events of that day (and subsequent ones) showed French colonialist liberals that their attempts to forestall Algerian independence had been in vain. Nonetheless, they kept at it:

A strand of hair, a bit of forehead, a segment of an “overwhelmingly beautiful face” glimpsed in a streetcar or on a train, may suffice to keep alive and strengthen the European’s persistence in his irrational conviction that the Algerian woman is the queen of all women. (Fanon, p. 43)

Algerian women were not falling for it. After 1955 Algerian women were allowed to fight in the war for independence. Whatever Djamila Bouhired thought of Algerian patriarchal machismo she was not chipping in her lot with French liberals and certainly not writing sob sister stories to center-left French magazines, detailing her abuse at the hands of macho Algerian men. Nobody is dare suggesting that such men did not exist: they did. But that is not the point.

One million Algerians lost their lives in a fight against the kind of liberal fuckery that Damon Young and Kristian H and Kevin Powell and Robert Lashley childishly spout. Understand that the aforementioned negroes are only concerned about their own personal glory. They want literary prizes, they want book contracts, they want to see their names on the New York Times bestseller list. But they don’t want to look like obsequious alt-right colored bootlicks like that lump of shit, Jesse Lee Petersen, or those two gold-dust twins Diamond and Silk. So they take a route which they imagine is more honorable: calling out black men on their abusive and irresponsible behavior. And not just any group of black men, mind you, but straight black men.

But Black liberals do not understand gay culture, whether black or white. The black liberal image of the black gay male is just as condescending as its image of the straight black male: whereas all straight black men are priapic crotch-grabbing machos, apparently all gay black men are limp-wristed, faggoty snap-queens who look like RuPaul. As a heterosexual black male even I have to call bullshit on this. But you know American liberals–they, like their supposed enemies on the far right, also live in a world of cheap stereotypes.

Most of these violent black machos–and there are many of them–are either heterosexual failures, or actually gay. A few of them have been caught wearing dresses, as this lovely example clearly shows. Many of these ultra-macho black (c)rappers are rumored to be gay, and according to Suge Knight himself at least ninety-five percent of them are. Now American society does not give a shit about black gay men, but they see some of them as useful tools in beating other black men in the head with; they imagine that the black gay man–because he has been ostracized from his community (and let’s face it, he often is)–will be useful in ridiculing and beating down the rest of us.

Anyone who has spent time in Black America knows who the real “white” people are in our communities. They are the pseudo-educated black males and females or they are black male drug dealers, entertainers, politicians, pimps, cops and of course, thugs. The irony of this is that in real time–not in Harvard’s make-believe ballroom time–black women are far more likely to avoid jail, to get employed, to choose whichever mate they wish to be with, and in general they are single out of choice (no matter what some liars may say).

Black American women in general prefer men they perceive to be glamorous, and that perception is unpleasantly skewered towards outlaws, bad-boys, thugs, etc. It is one thing to accuse the black heterosexual male of being a thug and quite another to ask who made him that way. The Harvard liberals won’t go there for a reason. They know that it was that black thug’s mammy who made him the way he is and they also know that black women (generally speaking) prefer black men to be thugs because they—well, many black women think that’s sexy.

Your average straight black man in America is not considered desirable because he is “a broke-ass nigga,” as anyone will tell you on the street. He has no real money and drives a shitty car. He is unemployed or underemployed. He does not own anything. He does not manufacture anything. He does not print the money. He does not head any army or any navy. He has a flag which, at the moment, does not stand for much more than angry ressentiment. Above all he has zero control over black women, who will tell him exactly what they feel about him in no uncertain terms. These same women will insult him, reject him, beat him up, jail him or even kill him. He has no privilege other than that which exists in the heads of Anglo-Saxonized negro feminists, racist Asians, racist Latinos (especially Mexicans), racist white ethnics, and toothless redneck trash who think “niggers” are stealing their jobs and women. In fact he is collectively what white men used to call “the lady of the races,” and for good reason: he is nothing in the eyes of America, nothing in the eyes of the world, in the eyes of his wife, girlfriend, mother, father, children and finally even his own.

Negro-Saxons and their lot are not interested in talking to this man. They have already decided that he is not really a human being. They are too keen on playing leap-frog over this man to get to the top of the Anglo-Saxon’s totem pole. They don’t give a shit if this black macho is systematically dehumanized and depersonalized. They don’t give a shit if his actions have less to do with privilege and more to do with his having been turned into a man-child after four centuries of slavery. And more importantly, they certainly don’t give a shit if millions of black women really do get beaten and killed by these machos–as long as they can’t write a book about it and make millions.

*

Damon Young “clapped back” when thousands of angry writers responded to his ill-thought out article. He now pretends that “moist” is worse than the word “nigger.” Damon is entitled to his opinions, but he needs to stop treating black Americans like children. Not just STRAIGHT black American males–we don’t need anymore of these stupid colonial-style divisions–but African Americans, full stop. Everyone is implicated. Any mother who has raised a straight black male child is also implicated, because that mother largely made him what he is. Mr. Young, Mr. Lashley and Kevin Powell are either too ignorant, too confused or too contemptuous of African Americans as a group to see that when they attack “heterosexual black men,” they are also leveling the gun at themselves.

They are too short-sighted to see that articles and theories such as these are used as alibis by the white public to socially ostracize black men on sight, regardless of their sexual orientation. When a cop, or a white woman or man sees a black man in a predominately non-black social setting, the first impulse will be to have him singled out and then detained. We know that white society makes no distinctions, and when the shit hits the fan in a few years Damon Young just might find himself in the gas chamber before most of us—if only because he is more visible and more prominent than the rest of us. But—like those Jewish collaborators for Adolf Hitler– he might get lucky and join some future Neger-rat that will protect his ass from immediate death.

Sterling Brown once said, “Harvard has ruined more niggers than bad liquor.” He was right. And ditto for white liberalism.

 

FOOTNOTES

¹Written in 1868 for The Revolution, a suffragist paper funded by Irish-American Democrat and arch-racist George Francis Train.

²Fanon, “Algeria Unveiled,” Studies in a Dying Colonialism, p. 35-45

³White people call it a “jock mentality.”

*How quaintly Victorian of her.

ºSpeak for yourself, Kristian H. Most black women we see on an every-day basis are as in-your-face and rude as they see fit. Of course there are exceptions, but we don’t see too many of them.

 

The “J” Word: Why “Jazz”?

PART ONE

When I think of the word “Jazz” I am reminded of the music I love the most, which is why I generally have a positive reaction to the word. Not that I have really cared too much about the word in and of itself. It is a very silly word. Actually, it’s stupid and insulting. Imagine someone referring to Chopin’s Nocturne in F-Sharp Major or Beethoven’s Violin Concerto as “fancy-schmancy” or “longhair” music, and you get the idea. Admittedly some of this Music, because it really is cheap, superficial, flashy and overblown for its own sake really does deserve the childish moniker of “Jazz.” Louis Armstrong’s West End Blues, on the other hand, or Miles Davis’s Tempus Fugit, or Sidney Bechet’s Summertime, or Gillespie and Parker’s Groovin’ High (1945) however, simply do not deserve to be categorized by such a word. Many of the greatest practitioners of this music have always detested it. “It’s a nigger word,” railed Miles Davis, in a rare 1980 radio interview. “While (we were) playing in St. Louis, the white folks wouldn’t even listen to so-called ‘jazz’ because they thought of it as niggers fuckin’ and all that shit. So since then, that’s a nigger word, a nigger thing.” Clarinetist and soprano saxist Sidney Bechet considered the word to be superfluous; he preferred to call the music “ragtime” throughout his life. To him Jazz was just “a name the white people have given to the music. There’s two kinds of music. There’s classic and there’s ragtime. When I tell you ragtime, you can feel it, there’s a spirit right in the word…But Jazz, ­ Jazz could mean any damn’ thing: high times, screwing, ballroom. It used to be spelled Jass…”.

Duke Ellington (with whom Bechet played briefly in 1925) himself said as much concerning “Jazz.” The word seems to have rubbed him the wrong way and he used it reluctantly, out of lack of choice for a better word. “By and large, (this music) has always been like the kind of man you wouldn’t want your daughter to associate with,” he once wrote. “The word ‘jazz’ has been part of the problem.”°

Indeed. “Jazz” has the stink of Storyville all over it. Since its closing in 1917 a huge amount of legends and fantasies have grown up around Storyville, fed in large part by the embellishments of musicians who once played in its establishments. For the record let it be known that, aside from solo pianists such as Tony Jackson, Kid Ross or Ferdinand Mouton (or LaMothe or LeMott) no jazz band (nor any other band) ever played in a Storyville brothel: most whorehouses were ill-equipped to house a six or seven-piece band on their premises. Joe Oliver, Freddie Keppard, Manuel Manetta, Edward “Kid” Ory, Johnny and Warren “Baby” Dodds, Lorenzo Tio, Jr., Peter Bocage, Henry Zeno, George “Pops” Foster, Alphonse Picou, Armand Piron, Sidney Bechet and their ilk plied their trade in grungy cafes and dance halls such as Pete Lala’s, The Big 25 or Tom Anderson’s cafe for distressingly long hours and for insultingly low pay. These establishments were often hot, sweaty and stinking of armpits, bad breath, wet farts and God knows what else–which explains why New Orleans’ Union Sons Hall, a popular dance hall among black New Orleanians, was cheekily referred to as the “Funky Butt Hall.”

In any event, the music that the above musicians were shaping between roughly 1890 and 1915 was very rarely, if at all, referred to as “jazz,” let alone “jass.” To Sidney Bechet and Louis Nelson DeLisle, it was always “ragtime music.” To others it was simply “The Music.” The shady origins of the word jazz–indeed, the very cheapness of the word itself–appeared to impress even in the minds of its creators that what they were doing was cheap, dirty, and disreputable–“jungle music,” as Rudy Vallee once insinuated on his radio program. If early jazz musicians plied their trade in ratty joints, it was certainly not out of choice.

“Who draped those basement dens

With silk, but knaves and robbers

And their ilk?

Who came to prostitute your art

And gave you pennies

for your part?”

–Duke Ellington, excerpt from text of Black, Brown and Beige

There are dozens upon dozens of other explanations for the origins of the J-word and all of them are rather ridiculous. Jazz, in 1912, was simply an adjective used to describe something spunky (as was jasm, a word dating to at least 1860) screwy and off-the-wall–the way Portland Beavers pitcher Ben Henderson described his latest (and unsuccessful) method of pitching. As for “jass,” speculations abound as to whether or not it is a derivation of “jaser” (the French verb to jabber on and talk shit) or a reference to the scent of jasmine (which the whores of Storyville allegedly wore) or whether it was simply cooked up by white New Orleans musicians (such as Tom Brown¹) once they made their way out of the South and towards Chicago, San Francisco and New York.

The truth is that “Jazz” was slapped on The Music as a way of selling it to the broader white American mainstream. The earliest known reference to “Jazz” in a musical sense dates from July 11, 1915.  This very revealing article, written by Gordon Seagrove for the Chicago Tribune, features a caricatured “darkie”² alto saxophonist woo-wooing away on his horn. So it is perfectly clear that as early as the summer of 1915 The Music–a potent mixture of blues, ragtime and secularized spiritual harmonies–was already being referred to as “Jazz.” The word was insulting, but it sold the music and helped to get some of these musicians out of Funky Butt Hall. (Note the two Z’s and not two S’s. It is not entirely clear as to how or why Tom Brown, Johnny Stein or Dominic La Rocca came up with “jass.” In my opinion, Jass sounds a lot like Ass–indeed, most of the records put out by the Original Dixieland Jass Band and its many imitators (between 1917 and 1920) sound like “ass,” and certainly not in a good way.)

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Duke Ellington, about 1930. “I am not playing Jazz…I am trying to play the natural feelings of a people”

I have already noted that New Orleanians generally disliked the term. Northerners were not much different. To James P. Johnson and Eubie Blake it was still Ragtime. Ellington’s own preference was for the term Negro Music. “I am not playing jazz,” he stated in 1930, in reference to his musical ambitions, “I am trying to play the natural feelings of a people.” Ellington had once counseled bandleader and arranger Fletcher Henderson on the matter. “Why don’t we drop the word ‘Jazz’ and call what we are doing ‘Negro Music’? Then there won’t be any confusion.” Reportedly, Henderson was not too keen on dropping the “J” word, assuming he himself had ever used it.

Of course, negative reaction to the J-word was not always limited to black musicians.³ Much of this resentment was echoed even by white musicians themselves, such as Red Norvo, who once said in 1944 “I certainly hope it isn’t jazz we’re playing, because jazz to me represents something obnoxious, like that Dixieland school of thought…the musicians it stands for are corny by today’s standards.”

Dave Tough, one of the core members of the white Austin High Gang, eventually gravitated to more modern sounds and remarked of Dixieland that it was “nowhere,” requested by slumming “snobs” on a nostalgic kick in 1940s Manhattan. “Those Dixieland characters come here to live their youth all over again,” Tough railed. “They like to think it’s still Prohibition and they’re wild young cats up from Princeton for a hot time. All they need is a volume of F. Scott Fitzgerald sticking out of their pockets.” Tough dismissed “Hot Jazz” as harmonically infantile, “a bad copy of the music that white Chicago musicians played who were in turn doing bad imitations of the music that they heard from the musicians who came from New Orleans.”

Charles Mingus, in 1969, said: “Don’t call me a jazz musician. The word ‘jazz’ means nigger, discrimination, second-class citizenship, the back-of-the-bus bit.” John Coltrane, a few years before his death, told an interviewer that “Jazz is a word they use to sell our music, but to me that word does not exist.” Anthony Braxton (like the late Ornette Coleman) will tell you the exact same things, and not mince words about it. In fact Braxton is deeply skeptical of many of the current trends in “Jazz,” particularly those inaugurated by the Marsalis Brothers under the tutelage of Stanley Crouch and the late Albert Murray; he sees in the current “Jazz” revival a “freezing” of what was once an innovative and living musical language in stoneª so that it remains locked forever in an American (and in this instance, Southern) past which we ought to have placed far behind us. Braxton assumed that Marsalis’s music was simply a comfortably nostalgic accompaniment to the increasingly toxic racism and reactionary politics of the Reagan, Clinton, and Bush “administrations,” and on a very real level he is right: as pleasant as Marsalis’s music can be at times, it speaks very little–if anything–of our contemporary world; the harshness and dissonance that one can find in his music is the harshness and dissonance of another, simpler time. Sadly, even in that “other time” (say, the 20s and 30s) much of the music did not reflect the temper of that time but simply glossed over it with the phony 23-Skidoo slush of The Clambake Seven or, God forbid, the horror that was the Andrews Sisters.

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Red Norvo: “Jazz…represents something obnoxious”

Today, the most vociferous opponent of the word “Jazz” is trumpeter Nicholas Payton, who has made it his mission to assassinate not merely the J-word but everything else associated with it.† To this end he has promoted the term #BAM, short for Black American Music. “There is no such thing as jazz,” he wrote in April of 2014, completely negating the idea of any sort of “Jazz tradition.” “(A)ny idea of what that might be is false. It’s impossible to build a tradition upon something that was never a designed to be a true expression of a community. The very existence of jazz is predicated upon a lie, just like racism.”

The lie being, of course, not merely that “Negroes” are a simple, funky, sexual, violent and primitive people without a history, without traditions, without art, without minds and so on and so fourth–no point in repeating oft-repeated lies–but also the very lie that any such creature called a “Negro” exists. When Duke Ellington spoke to Fletcher Henderson of the need to create a “Negro Music” he was simply utilizing the current and frankly most socially progressive language of that time. Duke Ellington’s “Negro” was not the Negro of Tom Brown, Stephen Foster, Joel Chandler Harris, or the Original Dixieland Jazz Band nor even, for that matter, Mezz Mezzrow. Ellington rejected that image of the Negro publicly and was even more vehement in his rejection privately: “And was the picture true/Of you? The camera eye in focus…./Or was it all a sorry bit/Of ofay hocus-pocus?”

Ofay hocus-pocus, properly translated, is essentially what mainstream jazz or jass was and quite frankly, still is. Today that hocus-pocus (better known as bullshit) is simply dressed up in the robes or respectability and topped with a tasseled hat. But even the squarest of the super-squares, the rank-and-file men on the street, know that the vast bulk of contemporary jazz is remote, effete, elitist and un-listenable and that the back-asswards racism of many a “jazz classic” make even some of the best of jazz unendurable. Louis Armstrong’s theme song “When It’s Sleepy Time Down South,” for instance–a lovely melody marred by idiotically trite lyrics–was straight Stephen Foster, a fact he himself knew quite well and seems to have performed the tune largely in a satirical manner: On one early rendition of “Sleepy” (from December 1932) he twists the lyrics and sings, “when it’s slavery time down South.”

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Nicholas Payton: “The very existence of jazz is predicated upon a lie”

“To speak of ‘jazz tradition’ is like to speak of ‘racial justice,'” Payton continues. “It’s not possible to have justice within the confines of race because race was specifically designed to subjugate certain people to an underclass so that the “majority” thrives. Injustice is inherently built within the racial construct. There has never been any tradition within jazz other than to ensure Black cultural expression is depreciated and undervalued.”

As a staunch anti-fascist, I  share both Braxton’s and Payton’s concerns about this thing called “Jazz.” I hate to look at The Music–my music–through the ugly prism of politics. Yet at some point such skepticism becomes inevitable.  As much as I enjoy vintage jazz–I have to confess that it is the virtual soundtrack to my life–I see ugly political trends running in tandem with the current enthusiasm for ragtime, “hot jazz” and “swing.” It is a disturbing thought that the music of Blind Boy Paxton, the Carolina Chocolate Drops, Craig Ventresco, Reginald Robinson, John Reed-Torres and innumerable other trad jazz and ragtime bands both in the U.S. and elsewhere could serve as a musical soundtrack to something else: the rise in far-right nationalism across the globe. Fortunately, it ain’t necessarily so: there is a German swing society located in Berlin which is vociferously anti-fascist and even Socialist in outlook. But I’m afraid that their progressive politics are, generally speaking, not shared by those who enjoy their music.

_________________________

NOTES

°‘I was recently held up again at a Dublin street corner by a small crowd who were listening to a young man with a strong North of Ireland accent who was aloft on a little Irish scaffold. / “Glun na Buaidhe,” he roared, “has its own ideas about the banks, has its own ideas about dancing. There is one sort of dancing that Glun na Buaidhe will not permit and that is jazz dancing. Because jazz dancing is the product of the dirty nigger culture of America, the dirty low nigger culture of America.”’ Myles na gCopaleen, from an extract of his Irish Times “Cruiskeen Lawn” columns (1944)

¹Tom Brown (1888-1958) was a tailgate trombonist who brought his band to Chicago in 1915, billing it as “Tom Brown’s Band from Dixieland.” Brown was the brother of pioneering slap-bassist Steve Brown and a pathological racist and anti-Semite who once confided to journalist Al Rose that Europeans and Asians (“them foreigners”) refused to listen to jazz unless “niggers” were playing it, that “niggers” weren’t smart enough to discern any sort of harmony because, well, they were “just niggers.” As a side comment Tommy also noted  that these same “niggers” were riding on previously all-white tramlines, that “dagos” were getting all the good hotel jobs in New Orleans and that “Jews” were taking over Uptown–three notable developments in late 50s New Orleans which disturbed him somewhat.

²Gordon Seagrove, writing in the Chicago Tribune (1915), begins his article by asking a young lady “what is the blues?” The young lady answers, loudly and enthusiastically, “Jazz!”

“A blue note is a sour note,” explains an unidentified Chicago pianist in Seagrove’s article. “(Blue notes) aren’t new. They are just reborn into popularity. They started in the South a half-century ago and are the interpretations of darkies (sic) originally. The trade name for them is Jazz.”

³Much of the resentment on the part of Black American musicians to the word “Jazz” is due to racist assumptions concerning the true nature of The Music. Even to supposedly liberal and sympathetic minds (such as John Hammond or Patrick “Spike” Hughes, himself a superb jazz arranger) jazz was essentially a happy, primitive, supersexual party music where bored upper-class whites violated their sense of propriety by getting drunk, getting high, or giving or receiving a blow job under a cafe table. Leftist jazz critics (such as Rudi Blesh) read into The Music an expression of Negro misery, anger and resentment of the Jim Crow status quo. While this is true to an extent it does not give the whole picture of what The Music is about, and in fact is simply the white left’s paternalistic vision of Black “jazz” as a proletarian, anti-elitist folk music–a vision which is just as limiting as the right-wing “happy darky” caricature of “jazz” music.

ªBraxton: “The whole jazz platform, everything that’s happened since the 1960s in the jazz world, in my opinion, has come about through the liberal sector, and that sector has postulated a concept of “we are with you in communion around trans-African matters,” while at the same time, what they’re really saying is “we’re with you, but you had better follow our concept of what you should be. We’re with you as long as we can say that jazz goes to 1965, and everything after that is not black.” By chopping off the restructural component of the music, what we’ve seen in the last 30 years has been that without the head you start taking from the body, drawing from stylistic influences. From that point, the musicians would start to go further and further back in time; now we’re back to the minstrel period, back to Stagger Lee. But it’s taken for granted in every other community that evolution is a point of fact….

“It is coming out of New York; they brought the South to New York. By Southern strategy in this context, take the blues, for instance. The blues is being posited as the legitimate projection for African Americans to function inside of. More and more, the blues is being defined as an idiomatic generic state as opposed to an infinite affinity state, which is what it really is. The blues, in my opinion, is being used as a way to marshal and limit, or define the parameters, of African American intellectual and vibrational dynamics. With the blues, they can say “this is black music.” If it’s not the blues, if you write an opera, they can say, “oh, this is not black music.” If it’s blues, it can be received and appreciated as consistent with what African Americans are supposed to be involved with.”

Braxton’s concerns about “reductionism” in so-called Jazz music echo Frantz Fanon’s own observations concerning the Moldy-Fygge Jazz junkie’s revulsion towards bebop: “The fact is that in their eyes jazz should only be the despairing, broken-down nostalgia of an old Negro who is trapped between five glasses of whisky, the curse of his race, and the racial hatred of the white men. As soon as the Negro comes to an understanding of himself, and understands the rest of the world differently, when he gives birth to hope and forces back the racist universe, it is clear that his trumpet sounds more clearly and his voice less hoarsely. The new fashions in jazz are not simply born of economic competition. We must without any doubt see in them one of the consequences of the defeat, slow but sure, of the Southern world of the United States. And it is not utopian to suppose that in fifty years’ time the type of jazz howl hiccupped by a poor misfortunate Negro will be upheld only by the whites who believe in it as an expression of nigger-hood, and who are faithful to this arrested image of a type of relationship.” Frantz Fanon, “Reciprocal Bases of National Culture and the Fight for Freedom,” Wretched of the Earth. Bold-face mine.

†As a side note Vijay Iyer, a noted contemporary “jazz” pianist, also dislikes the term “Jazz” and dismisses it as an invention of the American record industry.

“Oh, the Violins!”–When Vultures Cry

James Alan Fields, Jr. was once known as a “kind” and “shy” young boy–a “gentle giant,” according his teachers and classmates in Kentucky and Ohio. In reality this fat, bloated turnip and self-hating Jew was inwardly a seething mass of white racist ressentiment, who by the 9th grade already held deeply entrenched, radical views on race. Throughout high school he studied intensively the Waffen SS under a Mr. Weimer who, in his words, “used all the tricks to really ram home how evil and wrong the Nazis were” and–upon learning about Mr. Fields’ deliberately running over 14 people at the Charlottesville rally on August 12–“definitely feel like (he) failed.”

Unfortunately, Mr. Weimer did, but he’s not to be faulted for that. If Mr. Weimer can be faulted for anything it was naively thinking he could open a mind which was closed from the start.

As the fallout from “Bleeding Kansas, Part Two” continues¹, many participants and observers seem to be cracking up. Many of them have since revealed themselves as simply being swaggering blowhards who thought this “white power” business was just another good ole fashioned game of “cowboys and Indians.” Jason Kessler, one of the head Nazi goons at the August 12th rally, was chased off the podium by infuriated protesters a few days later when he attempted to clarify what his goon squad had attempted to “achieve” at his “Unite the Right” rally. On the 18th of August, he sent an angry Tweet calling the late Heather Heyer (killed by James Alan Fields) a “fat, disgusting Communist” and that her death was “payback time” for the “94 million” Kessler claims were killed by Communism in the 20th century.² Kessler, of course, has backtracked, denounced his own words as “heinous” and is now claiming that he was drugged out on “Xanax, ambien and booze” when he wrote the tweet. The poor wittle thing is now claiming that he is under a “crushing amount of stress” and receives “daily” death threats. (Wow, Jason. How horrible. Welcome to our world.)

Christopher Cantwell, known as one of the toughest of the tough, one of the most uncompromising of the Nazi horde, made a name for himself by waving his pop-guns around while being interviewed for VICE magazine two years ago. (As a side note, it should be remembered that one of main organizers of “Unite the Right,” Gavin MacInness, was VICE’s chief editor about a decade ago.) In a more recent video an unshaven Mr. Cantwell can be seen sniffling and sobbing and shitting his pants at the very thought that the police might be after him, that he had never intended to be violent, that all that gun-waving he did on his previous videos was just “him talking shit.” The contrast between the previous muscle-bound Ubermensch and the latest driveling, sniffling little puddle of snot could not help but make one laugh. (Again, Chris, welcome to our world.)

And the tears, sniffling and snot rags didn’t end with Can’t-Well. When Donald Trump dragged his feet in responding to the outrage in Charlottesville, many people rightfully suspected that Herr Trump’s true sympathies lay with the neo-Confederates and alt-righters. This writer has always assumed the worst about the Orange Honky, so Trump’s half-assed and weak insinuations that Antifa was really to blame for Charlottesville came as no surprise. But most everyone else in the media was either naively outraged, or “outraged” in the most disingenuous and opportunistic way –like, for instance, certain establishment Republicans/Democrats, such as Paul Ryan, Charles Krauthammer and Mitch McConnell, who took advantage of Trump’s waffling to gain a high moral ground that they had never held in the entirety of their careers: as if it were even possible to attain “moral high ground” in contemporary American politics.

The downpour of crocodile tears and retractions began in earnest and lasted for about a week, especially after Logan began systematically exposing individual members of the Charlottesville rally. Pete Tefft was rightfully disowned by his family, which appears to have some sense of decency. Peter Cvjetanovic, 18, another disaffected white ethnic, angrily claimed that he was “not a Nazi” (all appearances notwithstanding) and was simply “marching with them” because…well, because he liked “white history,” that’s all. No nigger-hater, he. Jarrod Kuhn, a leading organizer and member of the allegedly defunct Daily Stormer, now claimed he was just a “moderate Republican.” (If he is, then that would explain a lot; that would explain Dubya, explain the Iraq War, and probably explain the late Ronald Reagan laying a wreath at the grave of SS soldiers in Germany back in the mid-1980s.)  Kuhn is now whining like a little girl and claiming that his “life is over.” It should have never begun.

Andrew Anglin, webmaster for Daily Stormer, has since decamped for Nigeria to get his chocolate fix. (It has been well known in Nazi circles that Anglin, despite his ferocious hatred for blacks, Muslims and Jews, has a secret sweet tooth for chocolate and caramel. The latter he buys in the Philippines and Cambodia.³) Clay Aiken, once America’s favorite hillbilly crooner, recanted his support for Donald Trump. (Super-jock rapper LL Cool J, however, did not.)

Wendy Osefo and Gianno Caldwell, two establishment Negroes–one left, one right–could be seen shamelessly and stupidly crying last week on Fox News. Abby Huntsman, alleged “journalist” and one of one of Murdoch’s alt-lite pinup girls, sat there sandwiched between the two of them and smirking the whole time. At one point Miss Huntsman shit her pants when negro Neocon Gianno Caldwell blubbered that Trump was “morally bankrupt.” Of course, anyone with a brain knows that such a statement is true, but Abby Cunstman does not. One actually wants to vomit looking at these three: two spades weeping like a couple of kids and that smug, self-satisfied, plastic-surgery-faced half-caste sellout between them, trying to keep the whole ship from drowning in crocodile tears.

These tears continued on Fox for at least another day from Melissa Francis and Kat Timpf, two more of Fox’s resident Playboy bunnies. Miss Francis supports Trump but Kat Timpf went in on the Grand Oompla Loompa, stating “it’s honestly crazy for me to have to comment on this right now, because I’m still in the phase where I’m wondering if it was actually real life what I just watched!” Well, it was, sadly enough. Call it The Unbearable Lightness of Being in Trumplandia, because after seeing the last year unfold one’s head starts to feel that lightness you get when one is about to pass out in horror–not so much for what you have just seen but with a premonition of what’s next.

Soon there was weeping left and right–literally. I didn’t like this silliness, and felt compelled to write this essay just to put all of this into some perspective. The icing on the cake for me was seeing this obese, shirtless, uncombed BLM woman foolishly weeping–again–while confronting an equally obese white man in full Confederate regalia, silent, stoic, unblinking, standing in front of General Lee’s statue in Charlottesville, VA. A bunch of other furious protesters surrounded the fat Rebel with curses and middle fingers. The police finally broke it up and arrested the fat Rebel, handcuffed him, and ever so gently stuffed him in the squad car, to which he responded, “I’m just here to honor him, that’s all.” At that point I would have had to agree with Miss Timpf about the unreality of it all.

America has become a bad Tom and Jerry cartoon. Perhaps it always was, when you think about it. After four centuries of unending, unceasing racial and ethnic violence in North America, the media’s pretended naivete about this basic American reality is worse than disingenuous. Why is Van Jones weeping on YouTube? What is it with all these “poor sapling” tears? I think I know, but I’m simply throwing the question out there for others who may not get it. Whatever the reason for all these crocodile tears, for all this faked outrage over the death of Heather Heyerª (the only person willing to lay down her life to end the alt-right)–please, just cut that out. Cut…That…Shit…Out. You look like a  bunch of idiots. Tears don’t stop fascists, not even crocodile tears.

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Cantwell: “Mommy, help me!!”

I guess that the Negroes to the left and right of us are trying to appeal to the conscience of a neoliberal global order that does not even see them, much less hear them. Or they are trying to appeal to the people living under that order who have been trained from day one neither to see nor to hear each other. Or they are trying to appeal to that small minority within the people who live under the Neoliberal order that can actually still feel, in the hope that they will take to the streets and cry with them in the Great Struggle of Tears to end structural white supremacy. The only problem with this approach is that structural white supremacy is represented not by sandlot bullies like Cantwell, Anglin and David Duke, but by Trump and Bannon, and behind them Hillary & Bill, Bush & Bush, the late Ronald Reagan, the late Margaret Thatcher, Obama, Ronald Dumbsfeld (sic), Theresa May, Jacques Chirac, Angela Merkel, Marcon, Berlusconi and Tony Blair. (The aforementioned people are definitely not Nazis but they certainly paved the way for their return, which is why I hold all of them accountable.)

 

 

Meanwhile Bannon has been kicked out for attacking Trump’s fan base (the neo-Confederates and fascists) and has scooted back to Breitbart, with conflicting reports as to whether he will support or attack Trump. Trump is digging in his heels and attacking the alt-Left, a political nonentity. Spencer is promising more far-right looney tunes in the weeks to come. James Alan Fields and the head of the North Carolina KKK are unapologetic and are not shedding any more tears than the Grand Oompa Loompa is.

Coincidentally it was a Marxist, Takiya Fatima Thompson, who also decided that weeping and wailing was bullshit and decided to buck the center-left trend. She  tore the Confederate statue down in Durham, North Carolina. It’s good to know that some people out there have some sense. Schoolteacher Yvette Felarca, who punched a neo-Nazi, said emphatically and without tears that clocking Nazis in the face was not a crime. And it isn’t. In this writer’s opinion she should have used a beer mug. The whole ideology Nazism anyway is violence personified. (By the way Ms. Falarca punched the Nazi in his stomach, and did not kick the Nazi in his face–unlike one of her white Antifa cohorts who, as I have noticed, has not been charged. So even white far-left radicals get preferential treatment under U.S. law, as opposed to their non-white counterparts. Maybe that explains why there’s been such a dearth of black, brown and yellow men at these demonstrations.)

The charges against Ms. Felarca are absurd. Felarca was, in her words, stabbed in the arm and hit on the head. A photo that I have seen of Felarca with a bandaged forehead confirms this. The Nazi in question–if you see the video–is twice the size of the petite, slender Felarca. I’m pretty sure that the Nazi who got “assaulted” by Ms. Felarca had to be rushed to the intensive care unit after those punches, which did not even bring him down–again, much unlike the white Antifa backers who toppled him into the street.

The pop-news site “Bustle” titles its article on Felarca, “This Middle School Teacher Argues Punching Nazis is Not a Crime.” No shit? General Eisenhower argued that bombing and shooting Nazis wasn’t a crime, either. He became the fucking President in 1953. Ms. Felarca is looking at jail time. What are you trying to get at with that title, Ms. Mendoza?

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Yvette Felarca: “I wont stop”–and no, she doesn’t cry

Many in the alt-right  suddenly lost their backbones when they realized that the establishment was not going to back them up. Of course the establishment is not going to rally to their side. The establishment, which is actually a bigger threat to human rights than Spencer’s ricky-tick Tiki-Torch mob, has its own interests at stake here, and outward displays of white supremacism are not on the agenda at the moment. It is much more important for the Neoliberal establishment (which, despite everything the Keks are spouting, is not in the least Marxist) to continue to build alliances and bridges with Third World billionaire stooges in Africa, Asia, the Middle East, and Latin America, and consistently refine white supremacism to the point where it will no longer resemble fascism at all, but simply something natural. In this new Neoliberal order 500 Sierra Leoneans can perish in the blink of an eye and no one will be outraged to the extent that people were outraged over Ms. Heyer’s death. Those deaths did not register in the Western mind.

And neither did the 65 people shot over the previous weekend in Chicago. Most of them were black, of course, and these shootings were simply “business as usual.” No tears were shed over them. They were “niggers being niggers” to conservatives as well as neoliberals, who would prefer not to call black people “niggers”: that would be bad for business. It wants black people to think, talk and act in ways that define themselves as such. The nigger stereotype must be made real and self-perpetuating, without any work on the behalf of the Neoliberal order. The systematic dehumanization, depersonalization and dislocation of African Americans must continue, but with that air of banality that cuts very close to Hannah Arendt’s own definition of the “banality of evil.” The same goes for Sierra Leone, for Syria, for Venezuela, for the Congo, for the Philippines, for North Korea, and every other nation which Westerners think to be “inferior.” Violence, dysfunction, depersonalization will be defined as “real black/brown/yellow culture” to the Neoliberal order. Come to think of it, it already is. WELCOME TO OUR WORLD.

This is something that those on the Left–those who don’t break down in tears when the shit hits the fan–need to keep in mind. The alt-right are merely the Brown Shirts in this fight; the real assholes are far deeper entrenched politically, culturally and economically, and it will take more than tears and marches to contain their reactionist fuckery. It will take discipline and organization, and patience, forbearance and absolute determination to throw out the organized criminality and insanity that passes for the New World Order.

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“Sob brother, sob sister”…
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…yet no tears from this New Afrikan socialist

*Heather Heyer (1985-2017): “If you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention.”

¹Bleeding Kansas, part one, was a dress-rehearsal for the First Civil War. The Second has yet to begin. According to the late George Carlin, who once joked about Civil War buffs in the 80s who liked to dress up and re-enact key Civil War battles down to the last detail, they do this “just in case we have to go through this again some time.”

²Of course, no one has ever suggested that Heather Heyer should have done the same to Mr. Fields, since corporate fascists and capitalists have killed at least 250 million people since 1800. This number may in fact be quite conservative.

³Anglin’s preference for darker (and underage) girls has made him the butt of ridicule among many hardcore white supremacists. He is also suspected of being Jewish, which is not unusual, since many Nazis suspect other Nazis that they personally despise as being Jewish. 

Also: Don’t be surprised to find that a lot of Nazis prefer “dark meat.” It is more common than you think. In fact one of the main reasons why these guys are Nazis is because they can’t get a “nice,” “ladylike,” “virginal” and “loyal” white woman who will give them the sense of authority they feel they can’t get in mainstream society.

ªNearly 500 people have died in mudslides in Sierra Leone meanwhile and nobody in the US has shed a tear over their deaths except, naturally, immigrants from Sierra Leone.

Shall We Kill Them Now, or Shall We Wait Till We Get Home to Masturbate?

“This is twenty people,” cried Emily Gorcenski, a transgender woman at a violent fascist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, on the night of August 11, 2017, “twenty people, standing against what is coming! WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?”

The woman was outraged at the total lack of preparedness on the part of the so-called “left” on the night of August 11, 2017. The look of absolute terror on her face was undeniable. As usual, it did not register in the American imagination except as low comedy. “Antifa tranny has major meltdown after seeing how badly they are outnumbered,”  The Saint Negro, obviously a fascist douche-bag, gleefully exclaimed. OG Redneck Moab, another fascist douche (and a cunt, apparently), chortled in response to the woman’s terror, “I can’t stop laughing!!”

“When fascism came back, forty people stood against hundreds,” Ms. Gorcenski continued.

Personally I think things are even worse than what Ms. Gorcenski said at that heated moment. Fascism came back in a myriad of clever formats. It had to if it wanted to be popular. Physical culture, dressing sharp, glamour and a free-wheeling attitude to sexuality were a few important ways that the alt-right managed to capture the imagination of bored white youths looking for alibis to express their racist and xenophobic views. The Alpha Male, Red Pill, PUA movement of the 2000s very easily took sides with the far-right for one main reason: Left-wing prissiness. The New Western Left is prudish, effeminate, snobbish and solipsistic. They are self-righteous and whiny; they are hypocrites. They are also a bunch of rag-tag slobs, especially if they are white; if they are black they tend to be spaced-out Afropunks with massive dreadlocks and crooked, uncombed Afros, knee-grows and she-grows who cry buckets whenever some dumb honky asshole calls them “niggers.”

Identity Evropa, to cite just one example is a well-tailored, clean-cut, masculine-looking bunch that looks as if they stepped out of the late 1940s. They appear to exude strength and resilience, right down to their cold, reptilian, psychopathic stares. The women of the alt-right generally are not fat, whiny slobs but slim and glamorous “ladies” like Faith J. Goldy and Lauren Southern¹–both alleged “authors,” and definitely fascists–the one being rather sly and shifty about her political affiliations and the other simply blunt and to the point about her fascism. (Note: Miss Southern is the author of Barbarians: How Baby Boomers, Immigrants and Islam Screwed My Generation.)

Ryan Beitler, writing for Paste Magazine, says bluntly that “the alt-right is larger than you think, and violence is helping them grow.” Indeed. Beitler goes on to say that “(t)he people who associate with the alt-right aren’t just re-tweeting memes and pissing people off on the internet, they’re organizing to fight for their fascist future. Violence has not only emboldened them to take up similar means of political combat, it has strengthened their cause by making them sympathetic—and therefore appealing—to young people who slip down the slope of racist ideology.”

And sadly, the alt-right is successful largely do to its violence. The glamorous edgy and sexy aspects of the alt-right are merely the icing on their stale angel food cake. The alt-right understands a basic principle that the tree-hugging white left and the shea-butter BLM chicks don’t: that Violence, with a capital fucking “V,”  is the primarily catalyst for historical change.

Peaceful protests do not move history. It’s a cold, hard fact. They don’t. There has never been a single instance in which a peaceful protest, or some sort of gentleman’s agreement, has led to significant advancements in the overall livelihood of homo sapiens sapiens. The reason for this is actually very simple. Human beings have yet to evolve to the point where contentious issues can be resolved by sitting at a round table and working out our differences, or by patting each other on our collective backs and telling each other, “we can work this out.”

Jiddu Krishnamurti, who by all accounts was not in the least violent, once said that “(t)he whole world is caught up in violence, in wars; the very structure of our acquisitive society is essentially violent.” In other words, we are all essentially born and bred and shaped in a civilization whose very foundations are built upon violence. Everything about it, and about us, is violent. The way we talk, not to mention our very vocabulary, is saturated with violence. Our clothing, our handwriting, our sexuality, our way of walking, our way of eating, even the way we breathe is violent. Our antagonism towards one another runs so deep that we are not even capable of genuinely thinking our way out of it: “Surely, it is not a question of how one is not to be violent. The fact is that we are violent, and to ask ‘How am I not to be violent?’ merely creates the ideal, which seems to me to be utterly futile. But if one is capable of looking at violence and understanding it, then perhaps there is a possibility of resolving it totally.”²

If only. Yet if we here in this decaying West are capable of observing and understanding the violence which infests the lives of so many of us–particularly those of us who are not white, and still more precisely those of us who are black–we clearly see and understand who originated it, where it originated and precisely which institutions are perpetuating it, and which social strata have been infected with it. To answer the last question, everyone is infected–even the proponents of nonviolence. “When we obey out of fear,” writes Krishnamurti, “there is violence.”

Naturally.

Naturally these nonviolent protesters think they are taking Dr. King’s words to heart when they naively confront the alt-right. Naturally, they rarely, if ever, show up with bricks and clubs, let alone machine guns–unlike the alt-right, which simply doesn’t care what any of its members do to their racial and political opponents. The alt-right is not merely just another honky minstrel show; it’s a movement made up of psychotics and social deviants* who clearly mean every thing that they say when they talk about killing niggers, kikes, gooks, spics, mudslimes and faggots. The alt-right has proven time and again that they are as willing to kill as they are to die for their goofy, antediluvian beliefs in a “white homeland.” Even the alt-lite, represented by scum like Milo, Gavin MacInness and Ben Shapiro, really aren’t kidding around. Milo really is a fascist, and a violent one, to boot. Milo does not have to put his velvet-gloved hands on anyone–all he needs to do is open his trap and speak. Of course, he believes in the First Amendment and all that crap, much like the rear-guard hacks at Infowars and Fox News do–free speech for himself and his species, that is; the rest of us, in his eyes, simply don’t count.

Neither Black Lives Matter nor their allies can really understand this; they do not realize who and what they are up against, for if they did they would have armed themselves with handguns (at the very least) before setting out to confront the alt-right in Charlottesville. Black “radicals” remain completely clueless as to the aims of the alt-right. They still imagine they are taking on a bunch of disaffected, toothless rednecks. The alt-right wants a Final Solution, and Black radical “Afropunks” want some sort of Kumbaya moment with Jared Taylor, preferably over a cup of ginseng tea. Meanwhile fascist cops in American towns and cities continue to hunt “niggers” like they hunt squirrels; they’ve been doing it for decades, but now these Afropunkass “radicals” are “tired” of it all.

Unfortunately, they have picked the wrong moment in history to be “tired” in the face of fascism.

On August 12, 2017 the “radicals” were down in Charlottesville shouting profanities at the Nazis and chanting the usual “No Nazi scum” bollocks. I call it “bollocks” because to a hardcore Nazi these chants are merely amusing, like water off a goddamned duck’s back. They were lucky to have Antifa to back them up in the streets, for at least Antifa halfway gets the fucking point concerning the alt-right. Nazis don’t understand the concept of nonviolenceThat is why one protester wound up dead at the hands of the Nazis, and why the alt-right won yet again. (Yeah, they did. They won. Score one for the Nazis and score zero for the loopy Black Lives Mammies, who all had their panties in a bunch over who shot John.)

The writing is on the wall for the African-American and he refuses to read it. It is not hard to understand why the African American refuses to read it. It is not hard to understand why this darkie will not connect the dots, and see the obvious connection between the killer cops and the alt-right’s kicking his ass in the streets. As for the latter, the cops and the alt-right are essentially on the same team–it has been well-established that the far-right has been infiltrating American law enforcement for decades, and that many, many cops who are not officially on the far-right are still, nonetheless, brutally racist towards Blacks. (Including, naturally, black, brown and yellow cops.)

As for the former–well, let’s be blunt. This soft little Negro is always willing to forgive his tormentor in the end. The Nazi has been quick to take advantage of the fact that his primary opponent (the Negro) simply has no balls. This is yet another cold, hard fact that we must contend with. The American Negro is essentially castrated; he can only assert himself physically against another, weaker Negro or, at the very least, in the bedroom. Frantz Fanon was dead accurate in his assessment when he proclaimed that “the black man is not a man” and that he wishes he were “white.” Loaded down with an anachronistic colonial-era “double consciousness,” which most Africans throughout the world long ago rid themselves of, this whitened African American–educated or uneducated–wants an “honest and forthright dialogue” with violent white supremacists–a la Cornel West, the master of dialogue and prayer vigils in the face of a rising Fourth Reich.

But no dialogue is possible with Nazis because Nazis lie. Nazis may be human but their concept of what makes a human is entirely limited to what they define as human–and we, by their definitions, simply aren’t human beings. Period. Nazi ideology only makes sense if one is willing to accept the idea that human hierarchies are natural and God-given. Of course, the current set of racial, ethnic and class hierarchies that exist throughout the world are entirely man-made, and upon close inspection are generally the product of (and are upheld by) spiteful men.

People are not born to lord it over other people simply because they have a different skin color or hair texture or nose or eye shape, or because they pray in a different temple, or because they don’t go to bed with someone of the opposite fucking gender. Only children believe these things, and all racists are children, as James Baldwin once said. The fact that a bunch of white thugs are incapable of growing up and facing the responsibilities of living in civilized society is not our problem. Our problem is to protect ourselves against Nazis because they use any excuse to flex their perpetually tense muscles. They use any alibi to puke out onto us the insanity and confusion raging inside their skulls. There’s no question that they are psychotically violent. The only question now is why are we still treating Nazis with kid gloves. We know what Nazis are, let’s not fool ourselves. They are our enemies–period. After so many books, documentaries, films and other media have been issued detailing the inner workings of the Nazi mind; after Hitler, after Auschwitz, after King Leopold,  after Mussolini, after Apartheid, after Jim Crow, after Pinochet–we, who supposedly understand just how horrifically destructive the ideology of white supremacy is, want to pull rank just when the alt-right is pulling out its bombs.

“It goes without saying that (Antifa’s) frustration is valid and tangible,” writes Ryan Beitler for Paste, “but the problem is that violence never effectively puts a halt to a political movement. On the contrary, it emboldens that movement to use the same tactics and gain sympathy from new supporters.” So it goes. The left is damned if it does something, apparently, but it is equally damned if it does nothing. Nonviolent protests (as we have seen) inspire their scorn but violent resistance emboldens them and encourages the alt-right to adapt ever more brutal tactics to achieve their insane goals. So far, not one member of Antifa has killed a member of the alt-right. You may say that violence is not the answer, and parrot that old shopworn homily that “an eye for an eye leaves everyone blind.” But one has to understand that this is not 1961, nor are we dealing with British colonial authorities in 1933 India who, after all, made up a tiny minority in that nation and who did not have nuclear warheads at their disposal.

The fact is that we have every legitimate reason in the world to kill the alt-right.³ We don’t have to hate them to realize that we must kill them. We don’t even need to ask why we must kill them. If we don’t kill them, they will kill us. It sounds hopelessly romantic, even corny, but it’s true. From a very practical standpoint, you cannot be complacent anywhere on this earth when the alt-right goes mainstream in the world’s only superpower. You cannot be complacent when Nazis worm their way to the top of the world’s political food chain. The last time we dragged our feet in deciding what to do with Nazis we found ourselves in a World War. If we continue to drag our feet today these Nazis will very soon be in control of the world’s largest nuclear arsenal. Do we, as a species, as homo sapiens sapiens, really need to deal with that? Do we need to face our own extinction, simply because a handful of Nordic Neanderthals disingenuously insist upon their so-called “right to free speech”?

*

Fascists in America routinely get away with violence because they know that they have a clear field of it. Urban “gangstas” are too busy killing each other. Mainstream “minority” leadership wants to stay out of such conflicts altogether. Only Antifa and New-Afrikan communists and anarchists are seriously going to challenge them, and the latter are few and far between; when they do show their faces everyone is outraged and no one is more horrified at the prospect of black terrorism than the rank-and-file Black American. When Gavin Long, a radical black blogger and ex-Marine shot three cops in Baton Rouge last July, the entire Western press frothed at the mouth (as they usually do in these instances). Mainstream Black America frothed along with mainstream White America. It had occurred to few people that Gavin Long, terrorist or no, had merely flipped the tables on a notoriously violent and corrupt police department, as had Micah Xavier Johnson in Houston; neither man was a Mau Mau, let alone an Algerian fellagha or even Huey Newton. (It is worth noting at this point that both Johnson and Long were by-products of the U.S. military machine, and both had spotless backgrounds. Neither was a stereotypical pot-smoking, gun-wielding, illiterate “thug.” Both served their country with honors.) The late Micah Johnson and the late Gavin Long were “monsters” not so much because they really were violent black chauvinists but because they had the temerity to commit “outrageous” acts against American law enforcement–“outrageous,” in Western minds, because neither Mr. Johnson nor Mr. Long were Green Mountain Boys or Sinn Fein patriots. To paraphrase James Baldwin, any black man who sees the world the way John Wayne sees it is simply “stark raving mad.”

Of course, to be fair, the late white James Hodgkinson was also perceived as being–and to be truthful, certainly was–“mad” for shooting House Majority Whip Steve Scalise. There was a bipartisan response in Congress condemning the attacks and well-wishing from all around to Representative Scalise–a homophobic bigot whose views chime very well with those of the alt-right.

To all of which I can only say–and to bring up Baldwin again–“people who treat other people as less than human must not be surprised when the bread they have cast on the waters comes floating back to them, poisoned.”

____________

¹Here we have two cracker Canucks–crackeresses, to be precise–one of whom (Miss Southern) dragged her dirty ass all the way from Canada to prevent an “invasion” of Sicily by a handful of displaced African migrants. The migrants were unarmed and apparently malnourished, but in Miss Southern’s mind they were oversexed, jihad-prone Saracens armed with hard-ons, cross-bows and scimitars. Miss Goldy-locks is a Greek Orthodox skank who sexed herself up just for the Charlottesville Massacre, and had a cameraman follow her about while she loudly complained that the fuzz wouldn’t let the fash march anymore, that her extreme-right views (and her fellow honky patriots) were being sidelined by Black Lives Matter “niggers” and Antifa “commie Jew fags.” (She didn’t use those slurs, but she was “on code” at that moment, so it didn’t matter what she said.) Her whole shtick at that moment was to flip the script on the lefties and coons about “inclusion” and “diversity,” but in a typical display of bald-faced hypocrisy, the bitch expressed “horror” and “shock” when fascist James Alex Fields, Jr., allegedly “out of fear,” ran over several protesters with a car. Goldy-locks stopped her Mata Hari shtick and began crying, “Holy shit! Holy shit!…People are badly hurt! We need medics, we need ambulances!” Actually, cunt, what we need is for people like you (and that Southern hoe) to drop dead so that shit like this doesn’t happen again.

²Jiddu Krishnamurti, The Book of Life

³Edward Snowden: “Every act of progression in our nation’s history has involved tension with law. Whether it was the abolition of slavery, whether it was the enfranchisement of women, whether it was the birth of our nation–laws were broken, and that’s because the laws were wrong.”

*In this regard, they are no different than Hitler’s Brown Shirts.

The Global African: How Neoliberalism Infiltrated Black Politics

The more I examine the cancer that is neo-liberalism, the more I believe that the alt-right is merely a late-stage symptom of this political cancer. Neo-liberalism, being a sort of low-grade fascism to begin with (Mussolini himself defined fascism as a marriage between politics and corporate interests, a phenomenon which explains Neoliberalism perfectly, though few people want to admit this), will naturally manifest in its most extreme stages as Neo-Nazism. It is in the nature of Neoliberalism to absorb every opposition movement and turn it into one of its own. In fact it may very well be that the current opposition to the current world order is simply one of the many, many heads on this big bloated serpent called Neoliberalism, only a far prettier and more agreeable one. If this is true (and it’s still up for debate just how “real” the opposition to the current world political establishment is) then one can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that the many heads on the Neoliberalist serpent are beginning to bite each other.

So will Neoliberalism destroy itself? One can only hope. The only problem is this–what can we replace Neoliberalism with? A retooled and refined left-Socialism? Or a return to the ideals of the so-called “Great Society” of Lyndon Johnson which, on close scrutiny, weren’t all that great?

Beastrabban\'s Weblog

This is fascinating. It’s an attack on Neoliberalism from a Black American perspective, talking about the harm it has done to Black communities, churches, politics and people’s personal psychology and sense of self-worth. In this piece from the Global African, there’s a discussion between the host, Bill Fletcher, and a professor of Black Studies at Johns Hopkins university, Lester Spence about the harmful effects of Neoliberal economics. The second segment talks about the Paris conference on Climate Change, and the implications this has for communities in the Developing World.

They’re both important issues, but the piece that interested me was the first half, the critique of Neoliberal economics. Lester Spence, the professor being interviewed, has written a book about it. Apart from the economic theory itself, he also wanted to correct and supplement some of the ideas in Cornel West’s book, Racial Matters, and a work on Neoliberalism by a…

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To The Blaze, Fox News and Shitefart: Shove it Up Your Ass!!

This is a brief post, and a bit off the cuff.

Fox News–and the rest of the alt-shite bunch–apparently think people’s outrage over fascism is funny. They also think it is illegitimate and uncalled for, and that anyone who opposes them should simply stop whining like children and accept Trump as president. To my mind this is as idiotic as the Germans accepting Adolf Hitler as their chancellor–oh, wait, they already did that 84 years ago. Oops.

Oh, well. No use pulling up that analogy because we already know what happened in Europe six years after Hitler was “elected.” The gist of that fandango was that Der Fuehrer wound up burning Europe to the ground. The silver lining to World War Two was that a weakened Europe made possible the liberation movements of Africa, Asia and the Middle East. But that’s not the point.

The point is that whatever happened between 1933 and 1945 in Germany wasn’t very funny. Well, the alt-shite seems to think that it is. But they are free to laugh their asses off at the prospect of an American Fourth Reich, where protesters and “dindus” and “mudslimes” get gunned down in cold blood. There is no crime–legally, anyway–in laughing at other’s misfortunes. But the alt-shite remains utterly clueless to the untold millions of people who are furious with them, so let’s just let them laugh. Marie-Antoinette also laughed, as did King George III, Fulgencio Batista, and the last Czar of Russia. George Wallace also laughed before he had a few bullets pumped up his ass.

The so-called “Triggly-Prof” who exploded at police on NYU’s campus said exactly what needed to be said, and with the right amount of outrage. It is ludicrous to expect any conscious individual anywhere in the world to simply be “calm” and “objective” and “reasonable” in the face of an ultra-reactionary regime that, to put it very lightly, is doing everything wrong, is an international laughingstock, and thinks that World War Three will be just like the Super Bowl. It is important to protest, even though (admittedly) they have not gotten very far in deterring the Dakota Access Pipeline, let alone throwing Trump, Pence, Bannon, Sessions and all the other honky hoodlums in Guantanamo (where they belong). It is important and central to what a democracy is supposed to be–we all know that the United States has never been one, even from a purely technical standpoint, but that is also beside the point.

WE DON’T ACCEPT THIS ASSHOLE. Period. We are not obliged to accept the clown, let alone suck his goddamn dick.* The honkies and Gunga Din coons cheering him on are still infected with a retrograde British Tory feudal mindset that should have died out two hundred years ago, but didn’t–hence, Southern Culture. Let the rednecks blow his ass if that’s what they want to do. We refuse. We will continue making fun of this clown and driving him nuts until both he and his fucking goon squad call it quits. And if the Feds want to step in and silence us, let them do that; it should give the more milquetoast among us a backbone and stand up IN REAL TIME, and not with cheap memes ridiculing Trump’s fucked-up haircut.

What do I mean when I say STAND UP? Look at the ongoing protests in Romania, for example. And let’s recall how the so-called “Founding Fathers” reacted to England’s various Acts between 1765 and 1774. The very existence of the United States–not to mention the Great Western World–did not come about by holding up peace signs and making memes ridiculing the Kings of England and France, or the Czars, Archdukes, and other semi-feudal overlords of Europe’s past. Today’s “Enlightened West,” replete with functioning toilets, street lamps, subways, newspapers, a “free” press, separation of church and state, etc., came about through conflict.  Omelettes are not made with unbroken eggs.

Of course much of that “conflict” had dire implications for 4/5’s of humanity, something which the clueless and utterly solipsistic alt-shite does not seem to get. “Europe is virtually the creation of the Third World,” Fanon has written. The European/American alt-right can’t get it through their thick skulls that the “Islamofascists” they bitch about are, likewise, the virtual creation of the West, since “Islamofascism” (not withstanding occasional waves of religious fanaticism in pre-1492 Islam) has no precedent in Arab, Turkish, Persian or Mandinkan history before European colonialism. They don’t get it, and they never will. These same pigs squeal about Chicago and Baltimore and Detroit, about the niggers who live there and the “illegals” wreaking havoc, blah blah blah. They squeal so hysterically about it that they never stop to think how in the hell niggers and spics ever ended up in Chicago. The Trumpite thinks Chicago is actually in Africa though any cursory scanning of a map will tell you otherwise. But what’s logical about Trumpism?

The one good thing that can be said about this clique of redneck street thugs (ie., the Trump Cabinet) is that they are succeeding admirably in discrediting the American conservative movement. They have only been in the White House for two weeks, and yet they have done enough damage to American “conservatism” to last 50 years. Give them four more years (God forbid eight) and we will safely shove the American neo-con movement (of which Trump is the ultimate manifestation of, no matter what the alt-shite pretends to believe) on the shelf with Nazism, Stalinism, Pol Pot, Peronism and Jefferson Davis’ Lost Cause.

*If this is what Donald Duck really wants from people like us, then he should buy a one-way ticket to St. Petersburg. I’m sure he’ll have access to all the Russian scags his mouldy old heart desires.