Why I Love "Mad Men."

For reasons that won't become apparent until after my novel is published, and I can speak more freely, I will confess here, that I don't watch much television.  I wish I could say that I am immersed in reading lots of books, but that's not the case because I've been working on this novel forever and ever.  In the last ten years, I have slogged through watching really bad reality television; when I tired of that, I "elevated" my viewing habits to political news shows of revolving talking-head pundits. Finally, I stopped watching television altogether.

There is one exception.

Don Draper: The Great White Hope

I always watched "Mad Men." Live. Meaning, when it aired on Sundays, I was there, sitting. Transfixed. Not via DVR, or TIVO, or whatever television playback devices people use nowadays.

For the television ignoranti reading this, Mad Men is an American Movie Classics (AMC) television series about advertising executives in the United States in the 1950s. The protagonist is a handsome, womanizing advertising executive with the Midas touch. He's able to almost single-handedly keep a whole company afloat with his winning jingles, creative ads, and cool demeanor. He's the Muhammad Ali of advertising.  Not quite. Ali is Black American. I should say, the Joe DiMaggio of advertising. Oops. He's Italian-American. Let's try again:  he's the Clark Gable of Advertising (Oops. Gable apparently was part Black and Indian.)

Don Draper is, for the purposes of the series, only White.

I am not so biased and "racially-centric" as to not recognize beauty in so-called "white" characters.  Good looks are good looks, and handsome and beautiful people come in all shapes and sizes. Don Draper cuts a nice figure, alright, but what I like about his character is that with all his debonair and sophisticated dress (he looks quite ravishing in a suit), our man has a secret: he's a total fake.  I am giving away no spoilers here, however, as it becomes apparent in the first couple of episodes that Don Draper is not whom he claims to be.

I like this character because he is a metaphor for how I believe White men have been taught to behave in this country.  They are in charge.  And society and Hollywood (which shapes our country's ethos) has told them as much. Who argues with Hollywood? Hollywood has spawned
Presidents, Governors, Mayors, Ambassadors, Congressmen, and even a Senator who liked Hollywood so much better than reality that he defected from being a public servant, preferring to feed his super ego.

Mad Men shows what it's like when a man is by himself in the dark, with nobody looking, as he tries to hold onto his charade. He is the American equivalent of Marcello Mastroianni, in  La Dolce Vita, reincarnated with an American twist.

Marcello: Italy's original Draper

The series is actually tragic, for lack of a better word. Draper is human, vulnerable, lost, searching. He's looking for a place to call home even while he lives in one with a beautiful wife and White picture-perfect kids.

His secret that he's assuming someone else's identity is a big burden that he wants to unload. It weighs on him, heavily, making him pick up the bottle too much (although he does make being an alcoholic look pretty sexy because he's always in a shirt and tie, if not suit). When he wakes up, however, in whatever woman's bed, with his beard stubble and hangover, and displays anxiety at having to leave the comfort of a woman's arms, he's his most pathetic.

What is redeeming about Don Draper is that in all of his vainglory he is also empathic. He is, deep down, a mensch.  Where he has many opportunities to play a "role" created by the post-World War II macho know-it-all-ness and White male testosterone greatness, he is tested over and over again in episodes that require him to finagle his way through a post-war society in transition. America's winning the war and fighting the good fight made white men heroes to, seemingly, everyone, except critics in their own land who harangued against their superiority over Black men who were second-class citizens with menial jobs and segregated lives (where a Black man didn't have the luxury of being considered his equal).

The irony about my liking this show so much is that there are very few Black Americans or other ethnic groups in the series, and, as a writer, I've been haranguing Hollywood for decades about this phenomenon in my own screen and television writing.  What is fascinating about Mad Men is that, in a sense, the series is all about race relations without ever having to say so: because there are no Blacks in it. America likes to live the myth that it built America, and it did, but only with the contributions of both Black ingenuity and Black labor. Too often, Blacks are pilloried when we exclaim our contributions are overlooked. Well, they are--as we're still learning who kept their race hidden, or who acquired wealth from which Black originator or creator. And we are told to be Americans, not Black Americans, as if identity and history don't matter. It doesn't matter to those in power, but identity is essential on the way up toward power. You must know where you're from -- facts which have been intentionally kept from us for centuries.

In my own novel I write about race, but this blog is much more topical than the novel will be. My characters will navigate through their days, dealing with race without ever confronting it, as that's how it is here in the U.S. Race is uppermost in most of our minds when Whites and non-Whites interact with each other - as we dance around, sizing each other up as to whether or not the other can be trusted, spoken to, served, hugged, kissed, and loved.

Mad Men will resume in Spring 2015. I encourage everyone to watch the series before it begins again--and ends. It is one of the best television series ever on television, and there may never be another like it.

The Immaculate Conception of Birthing Characters in a Novel.

When my novel comes out, it will have been in gestation for 14 years. I daresay, raising an infant to the age of 14 would have been a lot easier than writing this novel, but you can't close the chapter on raising children, so I won't complain.

Here's the number one reason why it has taken me so long to finish the novel:

I didn't listen to my characters.

Bad move.

There is no such thing as writing.  Writing is channeling.  I have been fighting it for years, and it's taken at least 4 versions of my novel for me to get it right, or as right as its ever going to be.

We are in the Age of Aquarius, and are experiencing leaps and bounds of information-gathering from diverse sources, some far out there, and others through social media. I wrote earlier about how my research ended up presaging actual events, or prognosticated other facts, as I was gathering the information to write my novel.

The dilemma for me was how much should I listen to the characters begging for attention? Because, trust me, there was a battle going on, especially in a mystery full of potential suspects.

In my mystery, whichever character told the most compelling story got my attention. Amidst the din of the voices of adults in my novel, I heard the nagging voice in my ear of a teenager who wanted to belong in my story. As I don't have any children, I ignored it.  But as the years wore on, in the different iterations of my story, the teenager became more pronounced. He really wanted in.

So Melvyn was born.

www.blackyouthproject.com

Melvyn is in transition from being a Black American child to a teenager. He is navigating his life, trying to decide how he will comport himself in a country that sees him as a statistic, an ambassador for trouble: big clothing, hanging with his homeboys in the Louisiana suburbs (upper-middle-class, mind you). As far as anyone in the U.S. would see him, he's likely to be considered trouble. He does well in school, but tries to keep his street cred.  Apparently, there's a problem in some parts of Black culture that being intelligent is for nerds. Hopefully, he'll live long enough to accept that you can be both intelligent and fashionable. He's the product of a nasty divorce, but his father, a professional, is heavily involved in his life. Melvyn spends time with his father and respects him. It is easy to get lost in the shuffle, however, as both his parents work, and his yard work for a pair of male Hollywood types ensconced in the northwestern Louisiana university town will complicate his life.

I think Melvyn found me because, though I am childless, I feel for young Black boys who don't have the luxury of being multidimensional. They must be grown before their White peers, who only play-act at being rude-boys. I wonder if a Black kid ever gets to truly be a kid. Or does he or she have to stay grown?  To be vigilant? Don't trust. Don't show weakness. Be firm. Strong. Life is a struggle.

The following Daily Kos blog is worth reading as it says so much in fewer words than I would have used. And the Louis C.K. video is also worth viewing. He gets it: http://www.dailykos.com/story/2014/10/21/1338191/-One-of-the-Best-Statements-of-White-Privilege-and-Entitlement-That-I-Have-Ever-Read

My hope is that Louis C.K.'s progeny won't have the same luxury as he has, to be "better" than others by virtue of his skin color.

And as for Melvyn's story, will he ever be heard? I hope so. Let's start with one of his real-life teenage role models, Aaron, who suggests that Black youth should not be ignored, and the organization where his blog was posted, www.blackyouthproject.com which is helping to give Black youth, like my fictional character, Melvyn, a voice.

The Black American Musical Journey Viewed Through a Classical Lens [Handel's Messiah]

For classical music purists reading this blog post, I suggest you run for the hills, because what you read may offend your Euro-centric sensibilities. Like those who consider squash a sport for the "upper classes" (in England, it is rugby which is the high brow sport, but Americans don't know that), you might think of European composers as the epitome of culture and taste. For some, it may come as a surprise to learn that Czech composer Antonin Dvorak (ANT-oh-neen DVOR-zhahk), a European composer who spent time in the United States, in the late 19th Century, credited Negro spirituals as the foundation of American music.  Tasked with helping to divine an American aesthetic in music, Dvorak was invited by the National Conservatory of Music to help create the sound we now know as quintessentially American, in compositions by Aaron Copeland,  George Gershwin, and Duke Ellington, all indirect beneficiaries of Dvorak's teachings.

Dvorak is quoted as saying: 

I am now satisfied that the future music of this country must be founded upon what are called "Negro melodies. This must be the real foundation of any serious and original school of composition to be developed in the United States. When I first came here last year I was impressed by this idea, and it has developed into a settled conviction. I was led to take this view partly by the fact that the so-called plantation songs are indeed the most striking and appealing melodies that have yet been found on this side of the water, but largely by the observation that this seems to be recognized, though often unconsciously, by most Americans.

Dvorak's New World Symphony: All About Negro Spirituals

Black Americans give each other knowing glances when we see Eminem, Britney Spears, Josh Stone and other white singers do darn-good great imitations of Black soul. And we don't bat our eyelashes when rumors abound that Beethoven was a mulatto of mixed race heritage, or that our Founding Father, Thomas Jefferson, was literally father to his Black mistress's children, making the last name Jefferson a mainly Black last name.  Like many things about the United States, Black contributions to our country's greatness are dwarfed by the White-washed stories that literally erase us from history (even Paul Revere's lithograph of the revolutionary war deleted the image of a Black man who worked in his printing press).  White historians have tended to gloss over or ignore American history that shows Black ingenuity, and our contributions die on the vine.  Lewis and Clarke would have died early on were it not for their black slave, York, who helped the explorers navigate through the Midwestern Indian territories "discovering" America. Granted, York, didn't have the resources to go exploring on his own, but, he would likely have preferred to be free to travel as he pleased instead of how his masters pleased.

All that to introduce "Handel's Messiah," Black American style.

As much as it can be commercialized and imitated by very talented and famous white singers--when it’s all said and done, your heart will feel Aretha, Whitney, Jennifer Hudson, Fantasia, and Mary J. Blige, when you hear true “soul.” It is first a Black thing, then an American thing.

Black American singing and dancing is born of a deep suffering, a pain, an ancestral cry that is
incomprehensible, even to themselves, unless it is somehow deciphered and explained. Mervyn Warren, composer and arranger, executive produced and co-produced, with Quincy Jones, one of the most revolutionary adaptations of a classical piece ever--and not likely possible of imitation--that attempts to explain the black music phenomenon. In true fashion, the composer re-arranged a great classical masterpiece into “Handel’s Messiah, A Soulful Celebration,” producing a definitive anthology of black music, while at the same time carrying the European and Western tradition that is antithetical to the African origins of Black American music.

The black life of “adaptation” is certainly evident in the black majority and united belief in Christianity, a belief that my ancestors' succumbed to after their own modes of worship were  forcefully eviscerated once they were transplanted to American soil. Separated from the family social fabric that creates traditional forms of worship, the Black American has had to find religion on his own, and Christianity won out, as it did with most initial waves of our country’s immigrant transplants.

Music and history are combined in this compact disc that celebrates George Frideric Handel’s original “Messiah, an Oratorio for Four-Part Chorus of Mixed Voices, Soprano, Alto Tenor and Bass Soli and Orchestra or Organ." Mr. Warren combines the Black R&B tradition, heavily steeped in gospel and “making a joyful noise” -- gospel-based religious overtones--and very successfully foists them on a European musical masterpiece.

A European Who Loved Negro Spirituals and Music

How is Handel’s “Messiah” the pretext through which to understand Black music? This statement exposes an inherent paradox. Whereas there have been claims that Beethoven was a mulatto of mixed African ancestry, I have heard no claims that Handel was anything but a German who transplanted himself to England where he was welcomed as a composer for the Royal family. This German/English music could hardly have an African undercurrent to it. So, how can Mervyn Warren and Quincy Jones actually translate Handel for Black or other R & B music lovers?

To speak of Handel is to think of rarefied settings of choirs and orchestras somberly participating in a song-fest, usually in a Church or Music Hall, during Christmas or Easter, rejoicing in “the Messiah,” otherwise known as “Jesus Christ.” According to Schirmer’s Editions of Oratorios and Cantatas, the original composition reflected the limited talents of the musicians and choirs who were to perform the work. In 1741, Handel was in Dublin, Ireland when he composed the masterpiece, in twenty-four days. The Schirmer introduction to the oratorio cites that: “in his choruses [Handel] did not go beyond four-part writing, and kept his orchestra within the most modest limits, so that no instrument except violin and trumpet plays a solo part, and oboe and bassoon do not appear at all in the score…”
Messieurs Warren and Jones eschew the supposed limitations of Handel’s original work, bringing synthesized music, marimbas, tambourines, and the music of rhythm and blues to lift Handel’s Messiah to “funkdom;” remaining supremely reverential and in keeping with the original music.

Handel’s Messiah is a boastful yet contemplative piece of masterful proportions--one of the great

musical wonders of the world. Mr. Warren takes a great piece and “funkdafies” it for you. He takes a

European musical sensibility and raises it to levels so strat-o-spheric that you spontaneously want to “rock hard” to Handel. It is very hard to sit still while listening to his CD. In fact, if you have any soul in you (and you should, if you’re an American, black, white, yellow, brown, red, or any other

[stupidly-named] persuasion, because chances are, even if you weren’t born with it, you inherited some of it over the years listening to American commercials) you will be moved by the music. And if you’re religious, you’ll feel it even more deeply, because it will affirm everything you take on faith. But if you’re like me, a wandering doubter looking for a spiritual resting place, you’ll begin to think that maybe Jesus has something going for him, after all. At least while you’re listening to the music. For me it works because I have a decided classical sensibility (more romantic than classical, actually) and I also like to groove to R & B, hip-hop and even rap (as my earlier blog about rap attests).

To find an album that uses the classical notes of a great tradition, and then funks it up is to describe the impossible. The closest I can come to doing so is to use the analogy of falling from the sky and finding out that -- you can stay afloat. It is a glorious feeling. When I listen to Rachmaninoff, Elgar, Stravinsky, Mahler, composers who are, to me, the equivalent of Hard Rock classical composers, I usually can’t stay still. I tend to conduct, bop my head up and down, and sing back to them. But rarely do I get a chance to hear them funked up five notches, with a bass rhythm, percussion, and soulful voices as I do here -- well, you just have to groove and actually dance to it.

The songs of the contemporary version sequentially correspond, more or less, to the original oratorio, which is in three parts. The majority of the songs are in Part I of Handel’s original oratorio (often called the Christmas portion), and the titles remain faithful to the original. Overall, Messieurs Warren and Jones put 16 songs on their compact disc, packing it with a fervor that will whip you into a religious fever (whether you’re a believer or not). Here’s a sampling of some of the songs in Handel’s piece that appear in the “sequel.”

Part I
1. Overture
2. Comfort ye my people
3. And the glory of the Lord
4. Thus saith the Lord
5. But who may abide the day of His coming
6. And He shall purify
7. Behold, a virgin shall conceive
8. O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion
9. For, behold, darkness shall cover the earth
10. For unto us a Child is born

The feat of putting classical sounds to R&B is spectacularly achieved. The album's purpose is made known in the Overture, which is aptly titled: “Overture: A Partial History of Black Music.” To hear it is to hear the genesis of the Black American historical experience put to music. The Overture begins with a tribal drum echoing at night and the rattle of a snake, alerting Africans that an enemy has arrived to take them from their sacred shores. You can "see" them running through the brush, as they try to outrun their eventual captors. Next, you feel the moan of the slaves on the ships, in the fields, in the whole diaspora, crying and feeling the pain of separation from their land, their families, and their African heritage, all accompanied by the wail of a mother’s voice humming a melody of pain. From that we segue to Ragtime and Scott Joplin, the blend of horns and piano that herald the eventual big band sound which provided the basis for American Jazz. The brief overture manages to compact several other musical genres in its mix, still staying true to the melody of the original Overture, but adding gospel music, with tambourines, and a slow groove taking us to R&B music, funky sounds, garage music… it is absolutely wild.

The music matches the lyrics of Handel’s original music, word for word, and mixes in “ad lib” where necessary, usually in the form of Rap. The compact disc boasts some of the most celebrated R&B and gospel names: Vanessa Bell Armstrong, Patti Austin, Stevie Wonder, Take 6, The Sounds of Blackness, The Richard Smallwood Singers, The Yellow Jackets, Al Jarreau, the Harlem Boys Choir, and Tevin Campbell. Each accomplishes their solo or chorus with dexterity, perfect pitch and restraint, and bombast as is needed (and there is a lot of it, so you’ve been forewarned). The music will yell at you, scream at you, until you start to believe in its Word!

Mr. Warren’s talents were recently showcased at a 25th Gala Celebration at the nation’s music hall, the Kennedy Center. I don’t know anything about this man and cannot do justice to his biography or musical background, so I’ve taken the liberty of quoting verbatim, the bio of this truly gifted musician, which was printed in the Kennedy Center Honors program. I give due props to Mr. Jones (of whom I will speak more below), but it appears that Mr. Warren’s genius inspired and marshaled this production. I also believe that, as a lesser known composer, he should be given his due credit for a masterful work worthy of wholesale flattery and unadulterated adulation:

"Conductor Mervyn Warren's multiple roles as a record producer, arranger, film composer, songwriter, pianist, and vocalist, have brought him five Grammy Awards, six Dove Awards, and two Gospel Music Workshop of America Awards. He has written songs and arrangements for artists including Quincy Jones, Whitney Houston, Barbra Streisand, Dianne Reeves, and Johnny Mathis, and contributed and scored sound track music for several movies.

Messiah: A Soulful Celebration, an all-star African-American version of the classic work, for Mr. Warren also served as executive producer and producer. He is working on music for the upcoming film The Preacher's Wife (Whitney Houston, Denzel Washington). His classical pieces have been performed by orchestras including the Nashville Symphony, which he has conducted, and he has arranged music for and conducted many orchestral and choral recording sessions."

Written and produced in 1992,  “A Soulful Celebration” was revolutionary. To hear religious themes championed in musical rap-pentameter was a novelty back then. In most of the songs, Mervyn Warren, throughout the album, takes a traditional first couple notes of Handel’s oratorio, and then turns the remaining notes on their axis, wheeling and spinning them around to make a variation on the melody’s theme. My absolute favorite song [to blast at full volume] is “He Shall Purify,” a chorus-dominated song that is so inspirational that you’re likely to start flying by virtue of the crescendos. If you can listen to this song and still stand still, I’ll nail your coffin shut for you – because you must already be dead. “He Shall Purify,” sung by Tramaine Hawkins, is one of the most moving songs on the album. For anyone who is a believer, this should send you to heaven. A clear soulful soprano sings a beautiful solo, backed by a choir that crescendos in ever higher and louder tones, with male voices giving strength and adding volume to the religious theme of purification and cleansing (although I can’t say what it means to be “purified” – who cares, I wanted it just by listening to the song. Throw me some bubble bath this way!).

Patti Austin's lovely dulcet tones are very evident when she sings “But Who Shall Abide the Day of His Coming,” a song which starts simply enough but becomes a very poignant song of growing momentum that makes you feel you’ve discovered Him. Another beautiful rendition is vin Campbell’s melodious tenor voice singing, “My Redeemer, I know he liveth.”

Although I have purposefully highlighted Mr. Mervyn Warren’s genius, it almost goes without saying that Quincy Jones’ name carried much weight in making this the seminal masterpiece that it is. This man is a living legend. I have taken him too much for granted, even as a film enthusiast, unaware of the breadth of his role as a contemporary film composer. I have listed the number of films he’s scored, to allow you to witness his epic role in the film industry.

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

I wrote the article about the Messiah for epinions.com in 2001(titled, "Another 'Handle' on G.F. Handel's 'Messiah' - Funk-da-fied? A GIFT FOR THE HOLIDAYS), but as that site is now defunct, I have resurrected it, with updated information. I cannot sing this album's praises enough, obviously, and am submitting this blog because I hope that people might purchase the CD for the upcoming holidays. I do not know anyone remotely affiliated with the composers, producers, marketers, or affiliates of the album, so I'm not publicizing this for any royalties. I just want to share my opinion about this [great and] controversial (to some) musical work of art.

Say it [Not So Loud]: [Swarthy] and NOT PROUD?

The German Flag

German Chancellor Angela Merkel's government just set America back 300 years by freeing German students from the shackles of tuition, making it a human right in Germany to acquire knowledge. Here in the U.S., students are going into credit card debt to get college degrees that they will likely be paying on for 20 to 30 years, because college education is now a big business, not a right. In law school, I was flummoxed to learn that education was never an inherent right in this country, which we say was founded on basic fundamental freedoms of liberty and the pursuit of happiness.  The acquisition of knowledge for every American was never a category to which this country aspired.  Ergo, instead of extolling the value of education, our nation has always protected the right to be dumb.


When I graduated from college, I paid off my $5000 student loan and was grateful for the opportunity to do so. Yep. $5000.  I paid my law school loans of about $9000 (I don't even recall how much they were) in due time, also. I didn't pay a lump sum, so my lender definitely received a nice sum of extra money for my delays in paying the loan off, but I paid my debt back to society.  And I am grateful for the patronage of those creditors who gave me the opportunity to go to school.  Knowledge in America has never been for free. There was always a price tag. Black slaves weren't allowed to read and write, and even our current educational system has let [most] Americans down. We spend big money on  sports in college rather than on education itself.

We will never have free education in the United States (except here) as long as minorities want to attend college, in the same way that we will never have single-payer health care; because that would mean that minorities get a benefit that only Whites have been allowed to have, like the way it used to be: separate drinking fountains for Whites,  Whites-only restaurants, clubs for Whites only, Whites only golf courses, Whites only neighborhoods, white... you get it (I realize that not all Whites have these opportunities, either. But the presumption is that they can aspire to them, and even if they don't achieve, they still receive jobs with less pedigree). This country is not for the masses. It is only for certain individuals--especially for the ones who look like those traditionally in power, or as close to them as possible. Let's hear it from another [liberal] source, social worker professor, Deborah Foster, writer at Politicususa.com:

While the Republican platform has always included the mantra of cutting government spending on the poor, minorities, and immigrants, lately they have been willing to attack previously sacrosanct, widely used programs like Social Security and Medicare. They have come after programs like Unemployment Insurance and the Earned Income Tax Credit that support the working class. It seems like pure folly politically, given that nearly 44% of households receive one of these benefits. That’s a lot of voters. So what is the Republican strategy? What could they possibly be thinking?

For starters, they have come up with the phrase “entitlement society” and have spent a lot of money trying to get “Real Americans” (particularly White  Christians) to worry that we have one, and that it is ruining the country. They have preached that entitlements are going to bankrupt the nation and doom its children and grandchildren to lower living standards, debt, even some form of slavery. In short, they promote what Jeffrey Sachs has called “entitlement hysteria,” the irrational fear that social programs will wreck the country, encourage dependence and sloth, and benefit unworthy groups who don’t deserve them, despite a considerable amount of available evidence to the contrary.

We have our own Founding Father Benjamin Franklin to thank for his views about the whiteness of America, although he admitted his bias (not a consolation, of course):

Our Founding Father Preferred Whites

"Which leads me to add one Remark: That the Number of purely white people in the World is proportionally very small. All of Africa is black or tawny. Asia is chiefly tawny. America (excluding the newcomer Whites and the descendants of enslaved Africans) wholly so. And in Europe, the Spaniards, Italians, French,  (some) Russians and Swedes, are generally of what is called a swarthy complexion. So are many Germans, the Saxons and some Prussians only excepted, who, with the English, make up the principal Body of White People on the Face of the Earth. They can only wish that their numbers were greater. And while we are, as I may call it, scouring our planet by clearing America of its forests, and so making This Side of our Globe reflect a brighter Light to the Eyes of Earth's Inhabitants on Mars or Venus, why should we, in the Sight of Superior Beings, darken Earth's  People? why increase the Sons of Africa by planting them in America, where we have so fair an Opportunity, by excluding all Blacks and Tawneys, of increasing the lovely White and Red? But perhaps I am partial to the Complexion of my Country, for such Kind of Partiality is natural to Mankind."

This quote is cited on a white supremacist website as gospel for their own beliefs in white supremacy, but I won't use their links, for obvious reasons.

There is a whole religion once based upon the aspirational status of whiteness as religious dogma; and many once-pilloried ethnic American immigrant groups that were formally disparaged have now eagerly jumped at their ascension to the ranks of Whites, absolving their former detractors who called them swarthy and other names for not being Anglo-Saxon. And for a country that doesn't care about race, the U.S., as a government, spends a lot of time collecting data about it. The scuttlebutt is that the government tracks racial data to protect the civil rights of different groups.  But only on paper, it would seem.  Here's how the White House Office of Management and Budget explains the need for data about race:

In 1977, OMB issued the Race and Ethnic Standards for Federal Statistics and Administrative Reporting that are set forth in Statistical Policy Directive No. 15. The standards in this Directive have been used for almost two decades throughout the Federal government for record keeping, collection, and presentation of data on race and Hispanic origin. The standards have been used in two decennial censuses and in surveys of the population, data collections necessary for meeting statutory requirements associated with civil rights monitoring and enforcement, and in other administrative program reporting.  Furthermore, "data collection agencies have legislative authority to collect racial and ethnic data needed for Federal programs and in the case of the decennial census, for redistricting. They also use racial and ethnic data for analyses of social, economic, and health trends for population groups."

So much for our color-blind society.

And here's the rub: when asked for public comment, it would appear that representatives of certain groups didn't want to be lumped into certain categories that might cast them in a more pejorative light (my words). http://www.whitehouse.gov/omb/fedreg_race-ethnicity/

In the 1990 census, in California, nearly one-fourth of children with any Asian background were White and Asian.  Children of these marriages are more likely to identify themselves as "White" rather than "Asian." Others tried to distance themselves from being associated with the darker masses of the world; and those who belonged to the darker-skinned races still thought it appropriate not to be affiliated with Black Americans, and suggested the following:
 

"Collect data for Black ethnic groups according to geographic origin of Black ancestors (African, Haitian, Jamaican, Caribbean, West Indian, Brazilian, Ethiopian, etc.)."

"Create a separate category for Louisiana (French) Creoles. They objected to categorization with Blacks as they are a multiracial/ethnic group (African, French, American Indian, and Hispanic)."

"Blacks born in Brazil or the Caribbean (especially immigrants) do not identify with the term, 'African American.' Several studies of Blacks with roots in the Caribbean or Africa show they do not feel they share a common history or culture with American-born Blacks and distinguish themselves from this population.""Some Blacks who have been in the United States for generations have no record of where in Africa their ancestors were born and do not wish to be called 'African-Americans.'"

"Provide a separate category for Cape Verdeans (Portuguese and African ancestry from Cape Verde on the western tip of Africa. This is mostly a multiracial population."

I am not sure the categorizations of Blackness has done anything to help civil rights, except to isolate indigenous Black Americans. Indeed, it is a challenge, reconciling the earnest of the government to protect minorities with the realities of our present day snapshots of civil rights.

The Black Man Then...

and Now...

[photo by Wiley Price, St. Louis American]

Let's not forget the outright nuclear attack on voting rights in the United States, led by conservative  gerrymandering to keep black districts black and white districts white.

The Black American flag

I love my color, my hair, my Negroid features, and, most of all, my American-ness.  But don't hate me because I'm from here and have no place else to call my original home.  I don't have a foreign language or a foreign country that will welcome me back home, or other trait or custom that makes me more indigenous to another country. That is not "my bad." That's our country's "bad."

So, go ahead:  be proud of your heritage, but don't disparage mine.  Post  your thoughts about race here and join the discussion: http://theracecardproject.com



 

Rap is not the Sound of [White] Music. And it's Jailing our Black Youth.

While a minority of America accepts this...

Potentially, my blog post title alone has jeopardized the patronage of one-third of my readership, as I have thrown down the gauntlet in opposition to a part of my own Black culture, and to America's youth, of all races, who have adopted gangsta rap as their musical mascot.  In New Hampshire, white boys, in cars, run up alongside me, blasting gangsta rap; they lift weights to it on their smart phones in the gym, and get testy when asked to lower the volume (when my squash partner tells them they're interrupting our game).

It's always nice to be accepted by your own people, so their rejection of my blog's premise might sting a bit, but I love my people too much to care about what they think about me. I also admit to being a hypocrite because I originally embraced the PG-versions of Lil Kim on the radio before I realized she was actually X-rated (I had to give the "Hard-Core"-titled compact disc away; it just hurt my sensibilities too much). I have since wished that she could put her masterful beats and unique sounds to something more uplifting than extolling

...The Majority of Americans Accept This

having sex with "King Kong," and being someone else's P-_S-S-Y.  I have subsequently watched with horror at the proliferation of gangsta rap and believe it has contributed to the demise of our Black culture, and our vilification, by white America's, and, therefore, everybody else's consequential fear of Blackness.  What any sane observer might see as an inside joke, of middle class, well-spoken black actors playing thugs (Have you listened to 50-cent speak? He could be an English teacher, with his perfect grammar), instead, has played out in disastrous ways as white men show an inability to distinguish fact from fiction--and they both jail and kill our young Black men, our erstwhile kingpin rappers.

Over two decades ago, I wrote a screenplay, called "Poetic Rap," about the relationship between two teenagers, a girl and boy, the latter of whom loved rap music. I tried to make the argument, at the time, before gangsta rap was the norm, that the poetry of rap was no different than the sonnets of Shakespeare or Robert Browning, only showing more contemporary metaphorical ways to express love and romance, and, yes, carnal lust. That's before Hollywood let loose the F-bombs and curse words on cable that allowed all of us to witness what was once kept private. Now, swearing is part of our everyday lexicon. And Rap is one of its prime ambassadors.

Not being a psychologist, it's hard for me to speculate as to why rap has embedded itself in Black culture, but I would guess that there is a certain creative satisfaction in expressing one's thoughts in iambic pentameter.  As a child, when I saw "West Side Story" on television, in suburban Los Angeles where I grew up, and when the Crips and the Bloods were just neighborhood cliques, I figured it was because they had seen the movie.  The whole gang thing seemed relatively juvenile back then: it was turf control--don't come on this street or wear this color. The lawns were all manicured in those black neighborhoods. There were mostly two-income families. When we drove down Piru street in Compton, venturing from Carson, our  neighboring suburban city, we would drive, ducking our heads for fear we might get shot at.

There was also the rumor was that one should never flash his or her car lights in certain neighborhoods, to avoid inviting trouble.

Another falsehood about the hood.

Urban legends about suburban strife.

Robinson: America's Bad Favorite Boy

Yeah. I'm a different generation, and I feel blessed to be so. I played the violin as a child, imitated Tina Turner in a church band, singing, "Come Together."  I was in the Philippines when Rapper's Delight surfaced, and in my far-away outpost would try to translate the lyrics into Cebuano when my posse of young boys would ask me what they were talking about. I had no idea it was called rap music, that it had taken America by storm, and that, thanks to Ronald Reagan, real singing would become a lost art, championed only decades later on reality TV shows where young people are forced to sing songs with lyrics and beautiful melodies, from back in the day, in order to become famous.

Black America started on its descent with the ascension of Ronald Reagan, a B-rated actor, who anointed himself the arbiter of what was the acceptable purveyor of American cultural greatness.

Celebrated thuggery

Let's not ignore the fact that his colleagues, James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson, lit up the screen with their thuggish ways, pushing grapefruit in women's faces, and being all around nasty guys.  But everybody understood when they did it--that it was only the movies. 






Blacks did not get the memo that only white thuggery can be fictional.

If you rap about gang life, you must be a gang-banger; a big irony, considering many rappers are the guys who are too small to be jocks. They would have been members in the band back in the day, or geeks. Some of them still are, truthfully--they spend their time writing poetry, then justify such a feminine trait by funking it up with sex and danger they can only sing about. Rap performances, themselves, are a contradiction in terms. The speaker doesn't have to look you in the eye, and often wears sun glasses, a hoodie, and a hat as protective gear.  The rapper can grab his crotch for security, hold the mic so it covers his face, and can talk and express in the most macho of manners--his  feelings.


Lenny Bruce and Jack Kerouac were controversial counter-cultural commentators back in the 50s, and started a brand that spawned many of the foul-mouthed comedians of today. Words aren't as potent when spoken by a white person, however.  It is not the beatniks and the hippies, now, or even conscious rap that's under attack. It's Black youth, with their pants pulled down almost to the ground, walking bow-legged, showing their defiance of... other Black people?  I'm not sure.  Somehow, seeing dark-skinned men espouse controversy is very threatening, until whites embrace it.  In fact, Hollywood, e.g., the music industry, has perfected the monster, and demands that rappers continue to dig our culture into depths of their demagoguery, and, seemingly, purposeful accelerated destruction of Black culture:

Convinced that tales of sex and violence were the most profitable among rap’s White consumer base, in the early 1990s, record companies began pressuring artists to focus on gangsta-style lyrics that were largely devoid of the kinds of social or political commentary that many ‘‘golden age’’ rappers provided (Kubrin, 2005; Weitzer & Kubrin, 2009). This pressure, combined with massive consolidation among record companies and radio stations in the years thereafter (Rose, 2008; Spence, 2011), has drastically limited the variety in mainstream rap music, with a marked lyrical emphasis on what Sharpley-Whiting (2007) calls the ‘‘‘pimp-playa-bitch-ho’ nexus’’ (p. xvii) or what Rose (2008) terms the ‘‘gangsta-pimp-ho trinity’’ (p. 13). Although there are still many rappers taking up overtly political causes—Lupe Fiasco, The Coup, Immortal Technique, Brother Ali, Talib Kweli, Jasiri X, Rebel Diaz, and Dead Prez, just to name a handful—these rappers are often relegated to hip-hop’s ‘‘underground,’’ where they can build loyal followings but rarely achieve the kind of exposure enjoyed by mainstream acts. As a result, some critics have suggested that mainstream (or ‘‘commercial’’) rap music is no longer a force of opposition. Whitlock (2012), for instance, goes so far as to call hip-hop ‘‘the lobby of the prison industrial complex,’’ while Rose (2012) argues that it’s ‘‘the cultural arm of predatory capitalism’’ (see also Gilroy, 2013).

https://webfiles.uci.edu/ckubrin/Rap%20on%20Trial.pdf?uniq=pihx9r

This is a dangerous proposition, in effect, because now, where words were once a nuisance, now they can put you in jail. Charis E. Kubrin, associate professor of criminology, law and society at the University of California, Irvine, and Erik Nielson assistant professor of liberal arts at the University of Richmond, have written about the disturbing trend of prosecuting rappers for writing lyrics that merely suggest criminal behavior. The quote above is excerpted from their work, worthy of intense scrutiny for its frightening implications.  My blog cannot do justice to the extent of their research, well-documented and presented in a cogent historical light. Their research should serve as a clarion call to rappers, and Black Americans who support the genre, to reign in the gangster hyperbole:  love your race but don't facilitate our increased incarceration because of a need to support "cool." Of course, there is the corollary of what has happened to law enforcement, and its fake-cop supporters that it fears the Black rapper to such a degree that it feels compelled to snuff him out, so deplorably--but that will be another blog post for a future novel.

I'm not sure whether life imitates art, however, I believe as Black Americans we are spooked by our own story, and now live in fear of each other. I dare not try to dissect Chicago's gang strife, and black on black crime, except to say Black Americans are a complex people, riddled with inherent inconsistencies and hypocrisies (some of which I readily admit).


A subplot in my own upcoming novel addresses the relevance of rap lyrics in a criminal investigation, but muddies the waters of potential culpability in my Louisiana setting where Whites and Blacks and so many other different races embrace rap music for its violence and overt sexuality.  Things aren't always what they seem. Would Eminem ever be prosecuted for his lyrics of misogyny and Oedipal rage should anything ever happen to his mother?

The cat is out of the bag, now, however, and it's not going back in, and, as a result, the cycle of hatred for rap and black culture has now pilfered into our educational system.  Public schools are penalized for not taming the wild, rap-obsessed youth, who must often look only to themselves to learn.  With music education only tepidly trying to make a comeback, there are several lost generations of kids who only know how to rap. They don't know music, they don't know melodies, so they sample music from back in the day when most Black male entertainers had really nice singing voices, played instruments, and knew four- and five-part harmonies. We all want to be noticed for our talents. I do not begrudge the innate desire for people to practice their craft. But I despair that bags of money are being placed into the outstretched hands of hungry kids who see faux gangsta rap as their only ticket out of anonymity.

I can only hope that American capitalism embraces Venezuela's socialist answer to the question of how to bring kids out from the shadows of poverty, crime and despair: teach them some damn music. Imagine where an already inherently, enormously talented people could go with music.

I am Black Woman. Hear Me...

#RHOA: Overseer of Black Female Slave Syndrome and Our Unwitting Self-Destruction

While the U.S. cowers in fear and trepidation of mustering the courage to fight the scourge that is I.S.I.S. or I.S.I.L. (or whatever appellation is used to describe the terrorists hell bent on creating their Islamic caliphate), Black women around the world, except those in Nigeria, are oblivious of what's going on outside of their general hemisphere--outside of "over there."

Black women are fighting our battles, on our own turf, but the plight of the Black American woman is dead front and center.

There are better analyses of our contemporary battles:  Mrs. Ray Rice, domestic abuse victim and devotee to her assailant; the fisticuffs of the "Basketball Wives" or "Atlanta Housewives," who use their own brand of domestic abuse in their aim to be relevant.  And many aren't even complaining because those reality television cases, though histrionic, are telegenic (who doesn't like to see wild women fight)? Black women of television are struggling for prime-time ratings (see the tempest that never was), but they doth protest way too much.  Most of us are fighting battles to be relevant in our daily lives. Period.

Black women are some of the most misunderstood, if not "the" most misunderstood species that has ever existed in contemporary civilization.  We are the creators of the human species (heard of "Lucy"?), we are the subject of Biblical lore (before Hollywood let Whites play African roles). We are lusted after, mostly behind closed doors, in cars, in streets, in bedrooms, and in cotton fields where our progeny sprang into our contemporary apotheosis as Negroes, coloreds,  Blacks, and African-American "hoes," "girls," "tricks," "shorties," "bitches"--any others out there I've forgotten?  Our big lips and butts were the stuff of ridicule, and are now the stuff of big money. We've been eclipsed by the White woman, who has perfected our Negritude in White face. We've been out-souled by a more visually pleasing imposter; yet it is we who are ridiculed for our "otherness."

While the White women triumphantly sang, "I am Woman, Hear Me Roar," some of us sisters were moaning while busily doing the heavy lifting, too tired to chime in while we did their labor. Yet, we have no manifesto to declare our lot as Black women. Our collective lament throughout the diaspora is only explained and heard using one adjective: angry.  The appellation is cartoon-ish, lacks depth, and is a stereotype, just like the N-word, that must be rejected for what it is: a blanket adjective used to describe a complex human being, capable of dissection, but, most often, spray-painted by a dismissive appellation instead.  Using the term "angry" to describe black women is the equivalent of describing crimson, mauve, carmine, or burgundy as simply red.  Black women are as varied as the colors of grass that we call "green," or the colors of the sea in many parts of the world; for those who have had the privilege of seeing seas unspoiled by pollution, somehow the color "blue" doesn't do them justice.

Nicki Minaj, born Trinidadian, now a disgrace
to Black American women

There are some writers, pundits, and so-called entertainers (see photo to the left) who seek to capitalize on the Angry Black Female concept-- some from the diaspora, but not historically from the United States--they are the new voice for Black America, without having had the same experience, because their immigrant heritages foist them into positions of prominence.  This country is for immigrants, and the last person anybody wants to extol is a self-aware, American Black child of slaves who is also female, except for Condoleeza Rice, who wore a happy grin on most occasions that she served her President.

Over the past twenty-plus years, I have introduced my own Black female concept to film and television, but each was changed and adapted to reflect Hollywood's preferred story about Black women:  we are stern judges or crazy crack-fiends: television writers use the stereotype for dramatic pull. And, well, there is some anger out there.  But that's only on the surface.  Underneath the anger is disappointment--in our lot in this life, in walking a solitary path while all other women are escorted.  Even Oprah Winfrey, a newscaster, at the time, had to hire her escort, now life-partner, to attend a gala event.  Even her claim to fame is that she is not angry, but spiritual. She forgives and forgets, embracing the now.  That's what America likes to remember.  The Now. Not the Past.   

Preach, Lorraine

My protagonists have and always will be Black women, if they are to be fictional characters. To this day, Lorraine Hansberry has written one of the few portrayals of Black womanhood that does our cause any justice.  My character is not as emotionally involved and exposed as the characters were in "A Raisin in the Sun." She is my contemporary Black woman: her arms are wide open for love, but on terms that don't sacrifice her own self-sufficiency and independence.  She is clinical, scientific, suspicious, and wary, but open to new experiences. In my novel, Dr. Lula Logan is vulnerable and alone, navigating her way through her new home, Louisiana, and feels very much an outsider.  She will feel pulled in two different directions by two Black men who are unavailable, each in his own way, but who still draw her into their respective romantic tentacles. Her love life is only subplot, secondary to her scientific self, as she becomes embroiled in a police investigation in the small parish.  She is a metaphor for all Black women who aren't models, or who don't wear blonde hair in a desperate stab at being defined by another standard of beauty, therefore jumping the broom to leave our ranks for acceptance by another peer group to which we will never truly belong, and who will always unwittingly one-up us by their ability to out-do us by virtue of their being coveted by almost every man, no matter what his hue.

Until Black women find the means to tell our own true story as women, not angry females, without Hollywood editing by white men or black slaves of White thinking, we will forever be marginalized by Hollywood caricatures and adjectives that objectify, reduce us to stereotype, and that will only further debilitate our position as citizens in our own American backyard.

ISIS or ISIL are vile terrorists. However,  I dare say that Black American ideological self-loathing and its consequences will do more to hurt this country than any Islamic religious jihad fought overseas.

Here's an excellent post about prejudicial stereotypes of Black women

http://www.ferris.edu/JIMCROW/sapphire/

and an introduction to the concept of Post Traumatic Slave Syndrome, which has begun a nation-wide dialogue about how slavery informs Black American behavior to this day:

http://joydegruy.com/resources-2/post-traumatic-slave-syndrome/


 

Sucks My Grammar....

This kinda sums me up

I don't get my writing.

Sometimes words I don't even think I know find their way into my writing vocabulary, and I am puzzled as to how they got there. When I'm in doubt as to their source I find my dictionary and marvel that I actually knew the word I had to look up. I give myself a self-congratulatory nod and thank the literary Gods for throwing me a bone, giving me the fleeting feeling that I am a writer.

Then I am reminded of my core belief that big words are for people who really, really, really know how to write. Only those who have mastered the art of sentence construction have the right to play canonical games with their intellectual brethren--of choosing those hard to pronounce words used to puzzle their "known" readers for whom they show their prowess.  I stand aside for those writers, and let them pass. It's taken me most of my life to realize that, even to me, English is my second language, though it is my one and only native one, too.

As a Black American with no known contemporary cultural ties with my ancestors in Africa, or Native-Americans, or other non-English speaking Europeans in my bloodline--I've only had occasion to learn English.  That was until I became fascinated with the languages of other people, and started learning "theirs." As a child, I could not fathom why I didn't have a separate language to speak with my parents, like my Japanese, Mexican, Samoan, German, and Portuguese childhood playmates, whose parents spoke in either broken English or with a heavy accent. Their languages fascinated me. I even made up my own to speak with my sister, a gobbledegook of gibberish interspersed with English words that allowed us to actually understand each other (Example: "kudosudomapalogo-go-to-the-store?").

When I had the opportunity to learn Spanish in junior high school, I jumped at it, and found an ease of learning languages that has informed my career choices and my general interests as a human being. I speak a modicum of French and can wind my way around Italian and Portuguese, falteringly. However, two of the languages I actually learned to speak, Cambodian and Cebuano, do not rely on the same sentence structure as English, which made them much easier for me to learn. All I had to do was figure out the meaning of the words, and somehow, string them together, and I could get the message across.  But I can't say that knowing more languages has helped my writing.


Even before my travels, my shortcomings had been pointed out to me by two professors:  one who admonished me that my ideas were brilliant, but not capable of comprehension; the other who scolded me about using words I didn't understand (I used "blitzerig" for blitzkrieg in a term paper :P).


Another problem for me is that I hear words like I hear music, and I get into a rhythm of writing where sounds are more important than content, at times. Don't ask me where this comes from--although I have romanticized that it is remnants of my forgotten African ancestral language, somehow laying dormant in my DNA that has surfaced to destroy my ability to convey English appropriately.  It has taken me over ten years of writing my novel to realize that I never learned how to write, and I recognize that writing well will be my cudgel to bear for the rest of my life.

What has helped me throughout my life in my travels has hurt me immeasurably as a writer, but my deficiencies really hit home after years of working on my novel with my mother, my unofficial editor. I wish everyone had a mother as intelligent as mine, and who has the patience to explain over and over and over and over again why my sentence structure was less than desirable. My grammar has improved, but, I guarantee you, it will likely never meet my mother's standards.  She is a much more voracious reader than I'll ever be (thank you, law school). Also, she is a classically trained pianist with an ability to break music down to its core elements.  She was also trained to speak and read in German, a necessary linguistic skill when analyzing classical music, particularly, Beethoven, the King of classical music. English being a [half] Germanic language, the strict rules of German grammar have rooted themselves into our English language, but without true understanding by many of us, educated or not. 

I recommend that every writer should find someone in their eighties to edit his or her work.  Someone in that age range likely has a better understanding of grammar, frequented libraries (instead of malls) when younger, and whose education predated the ascendancy of movies and its obliteration of our English language.  Most likely, someone in their eighties and nineties also understands how to diagram a sentence.  My grandmother, who did not attend college, but who did graduate from high school, used to sit down with us and show us how to diagram sentences. When I complained about my difficulties writing, my mother reminded me about diagramming sentences, and to my amazement, I came across a diagram sentence website: Grammar Revolution.

I cannot speak more highly about Grammar-Revolution, and I encourage people to support the website by purchasing materials and spreading the site's gospel. So much of the site has free information to which one can return often, but please consider supporting the site by purchasing, at a minimum, the $19 Diagramming Reference Manual. I think Elizabeth O'Brien has done such a brilliant job of trying to save the English language, at least here, in the USA.  Everyone should spread the word about this website and every writer should be referring to it to assist his or her writing endeavor.  Note that I have never spoken to Ms. O'Brien, and at least as of this writing, she has never heard of me (I'll diagram the whole blog and make corrections before she gets word of me - LOL).  Watch the trailer of their 80-minute film, independently produced and directed by Elizabeth and company: http://www.grammarrevolutionmovie.com/

My quest for improvement, introspection, and perseverance is ongoing.  That's what my writing journey has been about, all along, I believe.  By sharing this blog with you and giving you information to help you along your journey, as readers of my upcoming novel (and present, past and future writers) I hope you are able to take the short-cuts I couldn't take because, I didn't take the time to learn that I knew so little about my native language.

Big words are merely big words. Conveying ideas is what writing is all about. When my novel does surface, you'll see the pains I went through to say what I wanted to say. Thanks to my mother and hired editor, it should all make sense.

Well, hope springs eternal. Whatever that means.

P.S.  Here are some other grammar-related websites and blogs:
http://blogs.kansas.com/grammar/  also known as @GrammarMonkeys
http://www.quickanddirtytips.com/grammar-girl also known as @GrammarGirl
http://www.grammarly.com