“We are not Nazis!”

The fuck you’re not Nazis.

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

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

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 I was walking around in white sneakers and an outdated 1980s fucking Miami Vice jacket with money in my pocket and access to the cheapest whores in Europe.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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I can't relax in Greece

29/06/14

By IOS GROUP: Tasos Kostopoulos, Anta Psarra, DimitrisPsarras

ios@efsyn.gr

[…]

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

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

View original post 1,495 more words

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When You Set Your Own House on Fire, Don’t Blame Your Maid

Generalissimo Trump has been very busy these past few months. If he hasn’t been randomly shutting two-year old Honduran girls up in concentration camps, he’s been sharing his shitpot with everybody’s favorite comic opera buffoon-dictator (Kim Jong Un) and scribbling random, emotionally-charged tweets to any prominent media figure he feels is challenging his “authoritahhh.” He’s been showing his fat, white pimpled ass to the world so often that some of us have even gone blind.

Hardly a day goes by in which this baboon doesn’t fling his feces at us. He does it with such regularity that most folks have already forgotten some of his worst blunderings–for instance, his referral to African and Caribbean nations as “shitholes,” among other things. Another big blunder was his referral to certain “illegal” immigrants from Mexico or El Salvador as “animals.” His alibi? “Mexico and El Salvador are not sending their best and brightest,” on the one hand, and on the other, “most of these guys are MS-13, savage murderers and killers.”

To be fair, some of Dumbo’s wild ravings in Duluth (reminiscent of one of Mussolini’s macho freakouts) had a grain of truth to them. Mexico and El Salvador are, generally speaking, not sending their best and brightest to the US because their “best and brightest” would rather not flip burgers at Arby’s for two decades. Yet that’s about it. Trump doesn’t give a shit about “real” Americans losing their jobs to “illegals,” because it’s been well-documented that he himself has utilized “illegal” labor in the past to build his little towers. Trump’s referencing MS-13 was a flimsy insinuation that all Latinos are “animals,” and that all “beaners,” including his most ardently racist supporters in Miami, are MS-13. (The alt-right doesn’t mind using a few racist Latinos to bolster their numbers and parrot their psychotic ideology. Why not? It makes them look legit; it takes moral ammunition away from so-called Social Justice Warriors and other “leftist” scum such as yours truly. Remember Amin al-Husseini?)

It’s an understatement to say that Mara Salvatrucha is made up of Salvadoran youths who are beyond dehumanized. One need not belabor that point at all. Last July Angel Soler, a 15-year old, was hacked to death in Nassau County, New York by machete-wielding MS-13 hoods. But this begs the question: how in the hell did these kids get to be so thoroughly brutalized? The answer to the question is simple. “To understand the history of the MS-13,” writes Franc Contreras (CGTN America), “we must return to El Salvador’s civil war in in the 1980s. Left-wing rebels battled a U.S.-backed right-wing government blamed for widespread human rights abuses. Salvadorans fled the violence and migrated to the United States, many settling in Los Angeles. There, they confronted attacks from street gangs. That’s when MS-13 was born.”

America’s dealings with the world politically are like an exterminator who, contrary to all logic, uses mice to drive ants out of buildings. The ants may leave but the mice remain. When the mice become too much of a problem, this “exterminator” calls on the rats to drive out the mice but when the mice are gone, the rats remain. The whole process repeats itself until the fucking exterminator stoops to using elephants to drive out the hippos he used to drive out the wildebeests he used to drive out the bobcats he used to drive out the snakes he used to drive out the rats–the end result naturally being total chaos.

Uncle Sam, too proud to admit that he fucked himself, tries to shift the blame to the “niggers” or the “commies” or some other group he despises. Too proud, too narcissistic, too arrogant and above all, too fucking stupid. Uncle Sham wants the rest of the world to think that He alone is right, that it’s either Shammy’s Way or the highway. During the Salvadoran Civil War (which lasted from 1979 to 1992)  U.S. officials went so far as to take control of the Salvadoran military in the hopes of beating back left-wing “Marxist” rebels. In other words, America not merely invented MS-13, but created the lion’s share of the social and historical conditions that led to the rise of MS-13. Along with ISIS and Al-Qaeda, Mara Salvatrucha is the end result of America’s misguided Cold War policies of “containing Communism” at whatever cost. Better a radical Islamic government–so Truman, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, and Reagan assumed–than Arab Socialism or Mossadegh; better a hard-right ultra-conservative Catholic military junta (think Pinochet, Somoza or Trujillo) than Salvador Allende or God forbid, another Fidel.

The end result of such blatant political blundering can be seen everywhere, on every corner, in every street in every city in every single country. The entire planet has become not a replica of American bullshit but its obscene caricature.  And as for the state of America itself, no comment. Everything that America is going through politically, socially, culturally and economically is a direct blow-back from “Manifest Destiny,” that old Anglo-Saxon imperialist psychosis–or from America’s tried and true domestic policies of Keep The Niggers Down At All Costs. Neither Trump, nor the GOP, nor even those moderate Republicans such as George Will and the late Charles Krauthammer have any ideological ground to stand on when the facts are stacked against one another. The one cold fact that matters in the end (when all other facts concerning the state of America are considered) is that the country, simply put, is a shithole–a shithole with wings.

For those of us who aren’t white (you know, the Negroes), the country was a shithole from the word GO. Many blacks will disagree vehemently with this statement and argue that they are doing just fine, thank you. There is no shortage of Afro-Americans who will drape themselves in The Flag and talk about how lucky they are to have been born Americans. After 399 years of living in a slop jar you can come to feel rather fond of it. But a shithole is still a shithole, even with a massive barrel full of Popeye’s Chicken Wings set inside of it.

The Caucasian Kakistocracy (1)

Or: Being White as an Alibi to Fuck Around

Part One of Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, we already know that fact–or at least, we know it, but we don’t want to think about it too much because too many of us who are not of the Kakistocracy actually need to jump through these goddamned hoops merely to survive–much less pick up some chick in a singles bar. We already know that being “White” opens up doors that are generally shut tight for everyone else who isn’t. That doesn’t bear repeating. We know that some white slob who can’t dress or even brush his teeth properly does not need all the “swag” and “hustle” that his super-buffed “Black” or “Brown” or “Red” or “Yellow” counterpart needs because his “swag” is in his skin. The white, obese, one-eyed slob with the high school diploma will walk into the job that the “Black” PhD candidate needs to fight to the death for. He will get his wife while his yellow counterpart will go home empty-handed and his black counterpart will end up with an obese dishrag with multiple children and venereal infections–or, given today’s racial climate, could very well wind up arrested just for waiting on some chick in Starbucks.

This won’t happen to our member of the Caucasian Kakistocracy. Slob or no slob, punk or no punk, beta or no beta, he is–in the eyes of too many willfully blind folk–the ultimate Alpha Male. He can sit down inside a goddamned Cracker Barrel–this, assuming that it’s actually worth the time to even go to a Cracker Barrel–and not be forced out. He can use the esteemed crappers of Starbucks or Denny’s and not face the prospect of arrest. What–him worry? Worry about what? Even when everybody puts him down, even when non-white males insult and ridicule him, call him “honky,” etc., the “honky” laughs inside because he knows that his social “inferiors” are simply letting off steam before returning to their proper place, to pick his cotton, shine his shoes and suck his wiener.

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

*

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

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

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

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

___________________________________

 

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

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

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

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

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

But, It Ain’t Really Your Life…

The following is neither a screed against nor a puff-piece for the movie. In fact, I haven’t seen it yet. I guess I am obliged to eventually go see and find out what the hoopla is all about. But the trailers I’ve seen so far on YouTube leave me somewhat disconcerted. The whole feudalistic jungle shtick, with grass skirts, spears, plate lips and all, was something to be expected from Disney/Marvel. I can’t really say at this point if Black Panther is simply a far more sophisticated and nuanced take on Jungle Jitters (a notorious Warner Brothers cartoon from 1938 full of grass-skirted and plate-lipped jungle-bunnies), or an Afro-futurist signifying on the racist “Noble Savage” trope. Whatever the case, Black viewers flocking in droves to the theaters are anything but offended.

Director Ryan Coogler has hit pay dirt. Another Official Black First. Chalk it up on the board. Black Panther has confounded all the negative expectations of naysayers (mostly non-black, and generally white) who assumed that “the first big-budget superhero movie with a black lead, predominantly black cast and a black director” would be a box-office flop. It has been just the opposite. So far this film has earned close to a billion dollars at the box-office worldwide, trumping Wonder Woman (in North America), X-Men, Suicide Squad and Star Trek.

To be entirely fair to the Black moviegoer, he or she would rather see a film in which they are in control of their lives, solidly in their own spaces, technologically advanced rather than the usual cliches of poverty, mud-huts, ghettos, drugs, prostitution or the flip side of the same stereotyped coin, ill-gained wealth manifesting itself in flashy cars, McMansions, diamonds and silk, pearls, oversized jackets and gold chains and gold grills. Wakanda is wealthy and technologically far in advance of any other civilization in the world, and even though it’s a total fantasy, provided by Marvel through a hired Black token director, at least the fantasy feels good–if only for 90 minutes.

In the make-believe world of Wakanda, the Afro-American can momentarily picture himself in a world where he or she can be strong, black, beautiful and undiluted with whiteness, with all the futuristic trappings and advanced technology that European civilization never heard of. In this CGI fantasy Black can be Black without Whitey dictating the terms.¹However, there seems to be a problem. The sensibility of Black Panther appears to derive much from Afro-futurism, a concept that (according to Patrick Gathara of the Washington Post) “cannot engage with (Africans) as human beings but, like the white and Chinese worlds, only as props for its own struggles and self-aggrandizement.” Afro-futurism is an engaging school of thought, but the very suggestion that Africans cut out for the stars–rather than engage our enemies down here on Earth–sounds like an ideological cop-out, another way of refusing to deal with an uncompromisingly ugly reality. Wakanda is an Afro-futurist’s wet dream, but it is also a feudalistic nation of greedy elites living in isolation from the rest of “Shithole Africa,” a nation “with the most advanced tech and weapons in the world” that, nonetheless, “has no thinkers to develop systems of transitioning rulership that do not involve lethal combat or coup d’etat.”² Not that Black audiences give a damn, however: they are dancing in the aisles in dashikis as I write this.

Naturally this last fact alone got the alt-Reich hopping mad. Ben Shapiro, the alt-right’s Uncle Tomsky, spluttered in his squeaky cartoon voice that “nobody’s ever gone to see a Captain America movie and said, ‘wow, look, a movie with a white hero! I’m so excited! He’s white!’ Nobody does that in America.” Well, Ben, that’s because white Americans don’t have to do that–it’s taken for granted that their screen heroes are going to be white by default. It’s taken for granted that when some scruffy “negro” appears on screen in saggy pants and with grills in his dirty mouth, he becomes the standard by which every “negro” the world over should be judged by. This does not happen with white Americans, Benny–not even Jews. Over 80% of American movies are entirely white-oriented. That should be a fucking no-brainer. But you know there’s no point in discussing anything intelligently with the American far right. They are so anti-African that they are uneasy with the very idea that an African can actually dream of a better world, much less fight for one in real time.

But that’s just the problem I have with this whole Black Panther phenomenon: it’s yet another instance of Afro-Americans opting for Escapist politics over substantive change.

“It won’t be too long before the director cuts the scene”

When I see this latest box-office smash I can’t help but be reminded that once again, Black American history–to use that old cliche–is repeating itself. It repeats itself for the simple fact that those doing the repeating of history clearly never learned a damn thing from it. We went through this cinematic escapist foolishness before on at least two occasions: once in the early Seventies (Sweetback and Shaft) and again in the late Eighties to early Nineties (Do The Right Thing and Malcolm X). What I’m saying has nothing whatever to do with the quality of either of these films. Like I said, we are not learning from history because we simply don’t like to stand back and analyze anything–let alone ourselves and our situation in the world.

Culturally, we are living in a very sad time. It has become expected of Afro-Americans to pantomime the most idiotic and puerile stereotypes that non-blacks have of us–as if our very identity as Afro-Americans is predicated upon being, in a nutshell, primitive, bestial and inferior. This collective neurosis is not new, of course–there’s simply far more of it than there ever has been in the past. Outside of Wakanda many of us can barely relate to each other as human beings. It should be no secret why this is so. When one is constantly tapering his personality to dimensions acceptable to his persecutors, you can barely look your own brother in the eye because deep down, you know that you have failed morally–you have failed to confront your own persecutor, you have failed to challenge his twisted system of reality; you have repeatedly failed to achieve what you set out to do and what you know, in your heart of hearts, is the right thing to do. As Afro-Americans, we have not only continued to fail in challenging white reality, but worse still we persistently–by our own confused, emotional, childish blundering–reinforce the very racist juggernaut we set out to destroy. How else can one explain the absurdity of the Umar Johnson debacle, the Tariq Nasheed-Boyce Watkins fracas, or the sudden emergence of this new Hotep minstrel show?

There may actually be thousands of unknown, struggling black filmmakers toiling away with enough power of expression to turn the entire cinematic world upside down. But who would be willing to represent such artists, where would they obtain the money to make their films and, assuming they got these films distributed and in theaters, who in the United States–least of all in Afro-America–would be willing to watch such films?

One would have to wonder if Black Panther really represents a step forward for Afro-American cinema, in which case (naturally) we would not need to wonder too much about the matter. In fact, the thing that has escaped most observers about the Black Panther phenomenon is that, in reality–and this especially concerns independent Black film makers–it is a step down. And not because of White Hollywood–after all, White Hollywood is what it is, and generally has made it perfectly clear as to what it thinks about Afro-Americans up till now. No. Black Panther’s success sent a clear message to Afro-American indie film-makers that if you want a smash hit, you’d better create something else other than a realistic, thought-provoking and nuanced film about Africans and Afro-American life; you’d better stick to escapism and fantasy. Forget about Art, forget about Truth, forget about Knowledge. Forget about Reality. Black audiences aren’t fucking interested in seeing these things.

Just ask Charles Burnett, or Haile Gerima, or even Nate Parker. Killer of SheepBush Mama, Birth of a Nation and other such films barely raised eyebrows because those same Black eyes were too busy grooving on Shaft, Pam Grier’s panties, or lost in the CGI jungles of Wakanda. Black Americans put their money into Marvel and other capitalist ventures because frankly, this is where their hearts lay. They certainly think American, contrary to what they might feel about their position in American society. Their hearts do not lay in building their own things; they want what Uncle Sam has, even if what Sammy has may not be worth a damn. They are not interested in cultural or any other revolution; they were not interested in it 80 years ago, 50 years ago, nor 25 years ago and definitely not now. It’s not because Blacks have any particular love for it, or even so much because they are afraid of the ultimate showdown between themselves and White Supremacy. Black Americans are disinterested in confronting White Supremacy because–up till now–it has been extremely difficult for them to imagine living under a system in which they aren’t having their every breath monitored. And why would they? They have hardly known anything else!!

All this talk about “liberation,” “revolution,” “independence” and all this crap is really just abstract bullshit to the average Afro-American. He may agree with it, but how do you really picture all this in concrete terms? What does “liberation” really look like, anyway? What does a truly independent Black nation look like–one that is not dependent, in any way, shape or form, on either Europe, America, the so-called “Middle East” or China?Eight generations of living (for better or for worse) under the iron heel of a European-settler regime has virtually wiped out any idea of what that might be like for the Afro-American. This fact alone explains the smashing success that Black Panther has had with Black audiences in the United States.

In the average African American mind group therapy, or an individual desire to blow off steam to survive the grueling and humiliating grind of living under a white-dominated society gets confused for revolutionary thought. Those of us who ARE serious about revolution wind up in prison, the insane asylum, six feet under or worse. Or, they go into exile in China, Algeria or Cuba. Black Americans are so happy merely to be recognized, merely to be seen by a society that pretends they only exist as a cheap stereotype, that when crumbs in the form of a Disney film (Disney, another corporation that pretended for decades that Black people didn’t exist) are tossed their way, Black Americans savor each crumb as if they were individual pearls.

Yeah, it’s true: Black Panther ain’t really your life. It ain’t nothin’ but another movie. It’s a great movie–so I’ve heard. And if you want to see this film then damn it, just see the film. There’s nothing wrong with 90 minutes of good, clean fun. But for Christ’s sake, do you have to boogaloo in the fucking aisles or wear dashikis to see it, in the meantime?

______________________________________

NOTES

¹“(T)he Negro is a sort of seventh son, born with a veil, and gifted with second-sight in this American world,” DuBois wrote in 1897–“A world which yields him no true self-consciousness, but only lets him see himself through the revelation of the other world. It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.”

²Patrick Gathara, “Black Panther Offers a Regressive, Neocolonial Vision of Africa,” Washington Post, February 26, 2018

 

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

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

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

As for this bitch–let’s do the math.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

titi

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

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

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

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

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

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

…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.

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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.

red-norvo
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.

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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.