I’m America’s Worst Nightmare...

I’m young, black and holding my nuts like,’yeah’

The Black man. (As a homage to my hip-hop roots, I am going to say this once then not again, “No Homo”. Also this will serve as my lone digression, enjoy!)

This blog of mine serves as a real time manifesto of sorts. I have always been slightly self-absorbed and as a happy by-product of my self absorption, contemplative. The notion that I could put my thoughts and feeling on paper, in real time, is one that sits well with me. And while I agree with Glory, that I need a larger platform, I understand the need to start small and build. That is the grind, and as a self proclaimed “hustler”, the grind is what separates the successful from the merely lucky, the unfortunate and the failures.

The purpose for this blog, beyond the occasional self deprecating remark (which, given the amount of, “Sonny, you are so arrogant/self-righteous/cocky/confident/insert adjective here...” that I get, y’all ain’t buying it. As a result, I can stop doing it, and we’re all the happier for it. And that will be the second digression. So I was wrong.) is to contribute what little I can to the success of Black people in America. All I have to offer is my personal success and my thoughts. And from where I’m sitting, my ideas and thoughts are as good as any others I’ve heard from folks with more letters behind their name than I have. So, I write.

What I haven’t really touched on, outside of an occasional ramble here or there, is my group, the Black man in America. I mean to correct that right now, aided – more than ever, by Shawn Carter. Hell, he has better ideas than half of the “PHd’s” who write book after book on utter nothingness to maintain or achieve tenure, so why not?

The title of this post, and the lyrics in the body, come from the song "Young, Black and Gifted." You may not have heard it because it was released only on the S. Carter Collection Mixtape, which you only received in the box with the first S.Carter Collection sneakers. I mention this because this is one of the best songs he ever did. And without further (Freddie) Ado—

Y’all was in the pub, having a lite beer,
I was at the club, having a fight there
Y’all could go home, husband and wife there
My momma at work trying to buy me the right gear ... I grew up thinking life ain’t fair.

The Black man faces perils that the larger country does not experience. I realize and acknowledge this. Growing up, my first girlfriend lived in South Philly, on Tasker Street. Think I was taking Septa out there to see her by myself? Sheesh, are you freaking kidding me, not on your life. Niggas was robbing niggas down South, even back in 1990. Shit, I think Beanie Sigel himself tried to get me for my Polo Ski Jacket one Tuesday night. As a result, I adapted. I adopted many ways and means that weren’t in my nature. While my Dad always said, “a good run was better than a bad stand”, I was/am a little too proud, a little too light, a little too ill tempered and most importantly a little too slow for such. My thing was always, “If I hit you first, chances are you won’t hit me back.” But that part of me wasn’t me. I had to be brave enough to put that away. That took real bravery, and didn’t happen completely for many years. Even now an errant comment will cause me to consider a relapse , but verbally now, intelligently now, peacefully now. As longtime readers will note, my temper has been known to get the better of me at times.

And that is the Black man’s burden. We fight. Constantly. Like itchy and scratchy. It is who we are. I will argue about the best MC, the best sneaker, suit designer, president, fraternity like my life depended on it, no matter where I am. The bus stop, the barber shop, the water cooler. That is who we are. We fight, because the streets watch us like a hawk. We fight to stay sharp. We fight, because hell, we’ve been fighting since the playground. Why stop now? What we are trying to learn is channeling that fight into positives. I may have succeeded, though it helps that I fight for a living.

How can I get a real job, china white right there?
Right in front of my sight like,
“here, yeah, here’s your ticket out the ghetto, take flight right here, sell me you’ll go bye-bye here.”

We hustle. I hustle. I *heart* hustle. And I also know that the girls didn’t like broke niggas in high school, and that when I got that one inch herringbone and Porche Designs (I’m an early 90’s Philly nigga, What!?!?!) “before I was handsome, but the money made me gorgeous” (c) Lord Finesse.

The fact is, and the point that the Al Sharpton’s and Oprah Winfrey’s of the world miss is that the struggle of the 1960’s took us from the back alley to the lunch counters. But being at the lunch counters sucked if you didn’t have a dollar for a slice of apple pie. And hip-hop (before the current bullshit) reflects that. Moreover, the black businesses that we built in the 100 years between reconstruction and the “Movement” were not built to compete with the larger white businesses. Other than funeral parlors, we didn’t really need the local black business any more. Sure, barber shops and hair salons were nice, but they just weren’t pulling in the big bucks like they used to.

On the other hand, we gained the right to go where we pleased, be taught by who we pleased, and buy what we pleased. Only thing was that we didn’t know how to make that happen. There was a step in our growth that was taken from us. Those who knew how to make money in the larger society wouldn’t tell and those who would tell didn’t know.

So rappers started to point out the obvious. Not like I didn’t know about hustling. Not like I didn’t know hustlers. Not like I wasn’t broke too.

So, I halfway crooked it. And we know how halfway crooking turns out. Actually, I struggled with Hostess’s favorite emotion...shame. I was all set to acquire the Lexus by High School graduation (true story, I B.S. you not), but I didn’t want to get locked up and disappoint Aunt Martha. I really thought that my arrest would disappoint my great Aunt, and I couldn’t bear to do that, to waste my talents and disappoint my Aunt, for a car that I can buy cash money today. My Dad would often chant, “Education is the key to success, without it you’ll be a great big mess.” Unlike his stand/run poem, this one resonated. Largely because I had nursed enough scrapes and scuffles, and been jumped enough to figure, “Okay, I’ll try it your way...” Thanks Dad!

There’s a different set of rules we abide by here
You need a gun, niggas might drive-by here ...

As previously mentioned, being a Black man can be dangerous. But it isn’t just the fact that other Black men will try you in ways that they wouldn’t dare try a white man. I’ve come to expect that. Comes with the territory.

No, what gets me is that it is also dangerous to be a Black man and get pulled over. They could shoot my black ass. They were ready to shoot me for crossing a bridge in my own damn country while I was trying to escape a flood. And God forbid if I get angry. Apparently, when I get angry I become dangerous. Thus I cannot raise my voice in the face of bad customer service, lest security (who is likely one of my own) come down and remove me, or the local PD cite me for unruly conduct. And while the greater white society at large doesn’t understand why one little misdemeanor citation will make a difference, when you are interviewing for a federal clerkship, somehow that comes up. Funny thing that.

Sucks being the suspect. Sucks even worse when your own people believe it. But if the refs are crooked, do you quit playing the game? Hell Fucking No. You run up the motherfucking score. Thus I rail and rabble rouse. I stand tall at every chance, to be a success, to transcend the stereotype. I get a degree. I tell all. New job, raise, yep. If I don’t then what good am I?

I’m Chuck D, standing in the cross-hairs here...

This is what it means to be a Black man in America today. Not because my reality is shared by all Black men, nor because my reality is unique or particularly special. What makes this what it means to be a Black man in America is the fact that this reality is imputed upon all of us before we open our mouths to say “Hello.” What we do to change the game is on us. This is why I write.

I guess June is going to be a heavy month.

UPDATE-6/2/06 at 11:25 am

There is a thoughtful article in the Washington Post today about this very issue. Thanks Cool AC!

Please check it out here. For those who want a taste, this was particularly inspiring:

"It doesn't bother me if people say I made it with affirmative action," says [Colin] Powell, who joined the Army ROTC in 1954, just six years after President Harry S. Truman ended segregation in the armed forces, and eventually became chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "All that matters is what you do afterwards. When I heard complaints, I'd say: 'It doesn't matter if it was affirmative action or not. I got it, you didn't.' "

Powell, who is now active in an array of mentoring programs, offers his own history to young black men who worry about the limitations others may place on them. Your achievements, he tells them, need not be accompanied by apology. (Emphasis added.)