V.

My best friend in this city is a gorgeous Chinese girl who makes too much money to be so directionless. At the age 24 she earns over a half a million dollars a year, and yet draws a blank when I ask her what she hopes to gain out of life. She’s impressed by the tranquility of my bedroom. The incense, natural lighting, and record spinning have lulled her into a drunken sleep. She is still wearing her BeBe party dress. Her 5-inch snake-skin heals are downstairs. Last night at the party they were in her hands. I wore combat boots and never complained of the pain like some of the other sexy girls. I see the muscles in her legs contract and extend and thinks she likens of a crippled giraffe. I told her that she is still binding her feet. She doesn’t think that’s very funny. She seems to hate everything about her Chinese heritage except her Grandmother and the food. She wants so badly to be White. I want so badly for her to love who she is.

There is not much I understand about the issues of a first-generation immigrant, raised by wealthy parents who physically strike their children... besides the sorrow I see in my dear friend’s eyes. She drinks herself into a stupor every weekend, maybe to make the sex with losers feel less terrible. At our weekly dinner date, every conversation starts with “so I met a guy.” I don’t hear much about that guy after 3 or 4 weeks. But she’s a princess. And she’s so special. And I cannot articulate how important she is to me. Still, she’s hurting. I watch her move on the dance floor while I wait to use the toilet. She’s scouting the room, sifting through the Whose-Who of our small town, trying to find the one man who will save her. What she doesn’t realize is that no one will. They may take her out to nice dinners and invite her to fancy parties, but the end goal is not to love, but rather to use her up. The rich and powerful under-40-somethings at this event have their choices of pretty dumb girls to fuck tonight and any other night. And we are beautiful and expendable. We are only here to entertain. All the time, effort, and money we invested into our careers and education have made us nothing more than  silly American Geishas. 

IV.

I had a crush on a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes, which made me uneasy. I know I should probably marry a White man, if only to enhance my biological fitness, but the idea of a life of such servitude make me sick to my stomach. Sexual selection and evolution suggest that the best fit male will provide for his offspring and unsure their survival until they reach sexual maturity, thus assuring the propagation of our genome. I know that the white man’s education and physical possessions are just as the male peacock’s brilliant feathers. It’s very attractive, but there is a high cost associated with such a display. If I married for the sake of my children and not my own heart, I would perpetuate the slave-master/slave-mistress motif. Even if I were successful in my career and highly respected, the White man would dominate. His power lies in his lineage’s superior capabilities of conquest and imperialism. I would rather marry someone with whom there is an equal playing field.

But marrying a Black man was a disaster. I wonder whether the Black man suffers greater than his female counterpart? The Black female feels cornered into a stereotypically gendered role, but the Black man has no role. Not beyond the buck, or the buffoon, or the neighborhood terror. Maybe he has been sexualized greater than I. He needs to be buff and work out to maintain his strong physique, or we question his sexual identity. His bravado requires him to participate in pathetic displays of territoriality and violence. He is lost. He fights to suppress his complex feelings of insignificance. The white man made the Black man dispensable. His family estranged. His masculinity mangled. Now he calls his woman a bitch, and desires nothing greater than the white woman’s approval. I have seen so many Black men cry.

Disproportionately Black men express feelings of confusion, anger, despair, and fear, compared to White males. Maybe I hear it because they trust me; I remind them of their mommas, their figure of safety. Maybe I attract Water signs that are intrinsically more emotional beings. Maybe Black males are just fucked up.

My husband used to cry all the time, especially when he wasn’t getting his way. It’s so sad to see a 25 year old child throw a temper tantrum. African-American males are in a state of arrested development. Neglected and left to fend for their own, never maturing emotionally from the trauma of the Hood or even the Suburbs. Where does he fit in? His is a tragic story, because he hurts no one worse than himself, despite his externally abusive behavior. To his surprise, all of his selfish endeavors backfire. And so he cries. He’ll be crying until the day he commits suicide. 

III.

I have not permed or pressed my hair in over four years. To some this is an incredible feat. Black women whipped into submission often tell me they wish they could go natural, but they just can’t. I give them a sideways yet concerned look and simply ask, “why not?” To these white-washed Black women I ask why can't we be ourselves? Why can we not showcase with pride what genetics dictates and millions of years of evolution intended? Why must we subject ourselves to chemical burns and sewn-in weaves in hopes of attaining a standard of beauty that was never meant for us? Why do we want to be so much like them, when they would never in a million years choose to be like us?

She hears my tone of disapproval. She now believes that I am judging her. She feels guilty because she knows I am right. My words of empowerment and Black Love resonate deep within her, but she is scared. “Because I need a job,” she replies through sucked teeth. I guess afros are unprofessional. Blackness has no place in the corporate world. Negroes are not hirable. Maybe if I dress, talk, and act more like a white woman I could have a career in this capitalist society. But American capitalism was built on the backs of my ancestors. Trade and industry made possible exclusively through slavery. So where do I fit in, with my nappy ass hair, the proud descendant of a slave, trying to find employment in this Lily White World? 

It’s funny, the Black woman’s hair conundrum. White men always love my hair! And the white man is the one who determines the company’s payroll. Maybe if I let him finger my locks he won’t think them so 'dreadful'. And that’s really all he wants... to finger me. He doesn’t really believe me capable of high performance in the work place, that’s why he pays me only a fourth of his dollar. Rather he enjoys looking at my curvy shape in a business suit. He envisions stripping off the blazer and blouse and digging his teeth into my neck and breasts. He uses sex as a tool for control. He forcibly thinned our bloodlines with recessive alleles and Europe's fire sperm, creating half-bloods, quadroons, and octoon, until all you needed was one drop of blood to be considered Black. 

Now he places a ceiling of glass above me and calls me Jezebel. He dresses me in provocative costumes and orders me to dance in trashy music videos while rappers throw dollar bills and drink expensive liquor. Not far from ordering me to do a jig for the winter holidays to entertain White guests at the Big House, or to shuck and jive in Blackface during in the early days of television and Vaudeville. Not far from the Jennifer Jacksons, Jackie Browns, or Karrine Steffans. He doesn’t understand why he likes my body though. He just knows he wants to own it again. He feels entitled, and longs for the days of his Great Great Great Grandfather, when a Black woman’s private parts were purchased along with her labor for a lifetime. 

II.

I read Roots. I read Beloved. Goddamn it, I read The Autobiography of Frederick Douglas! Doesn’t that make me Black enough? As an African-American we always feel the need to prove that we are enough. I’m smart enough. I’m pretty enough. I’m cool enough. I have worth. My life has value beyond what a bidder would pay for my Great Great Great Grandmother on an auction block. We come from a great line of humans as possessions. Even the quest for freedom is the search for ownership. Can I purchase my own life please? Can my body, mind, and soul actually be mine? Is the cost of liberation now equal to what you paid for my bondage?

Life is hard enough already. Imagine being beaten for disobeying, or deciding to follow my own path. It wasn’t all that long ago. I’m actually not convinced that the slaves were ever freed. I study Lincoln and the Civil War and the Civil Rights era, and somehow all these historical figures just seem like puppets in a show meant to appease the masses. Feed them soma stories to tame their beasts. Make them believe that things have changed because now we have a Black president. But he’s a Magic Negro, and I, a house slave. My brothers on the corner, super brolic and hella ra ra, selling dope, busting caps, and making jack moves are field slaves. They taught me how to read. Let’s see what cute little Phyllis Wheatley will do. She couldn’t possibly start a revolution. We have only taught her double-think. She has no words to express her true feelings. The only language she knows is that of the Oppressor.

The slaves gather and talk of mobilization. They talk of retaliation and insurgencies and injustice, and sometimes with a particularly passionate leader or particularly hysterical followers, an action is made: a march on Washington, a massacre at Harper’s Ferry, an Underground Railroad that leads to so-called freedom. But these rabble-rousers are taken care of, executed, misrepresented in historical accounts, and unreachable to future generations which seek their guidance. This must have been planned. Here Intelligent Design seems the more likely cause than evolution. Systems of oppression do not speciate by way of random mutation and natural selection, do they? Was there a precedent for this? Was there an ancestral form of slavery that continued to change over time, becoming more and more unique in its pathogenicity? How virulent the history of one man owning another man. It makes the recently freed men want to own things: cars, clothes, jewels, women, various status symbols that say nothing except “you’se a nigga.”

My older cousin said, “anyone can max out a card. Bitch you got a $3,000 purse, but do you have $3,000?” The answer is no. We do not have anything of value. We do not own land or property. We do not have control over our own food production. We barely have control over our own minds when we watch television... and I’m still waiting on my 40 acres and a mule. 

I.

I live in an era where identity is digital. The Mark of the Beast is not a tattoo or chip, but rather the credit card I extend from my right hand to cover all financial transactions. Smart mobile telephones sync all social networks, messaging systems, and electronic mail, though the call functions are seldom utilized. Engineers develop methods to link brainwaves and computer function so as to robotize the human mind. Post-Humanism lingers in the not-too-distant future. Those who can afford it seem to welcome the blending of man and machine. Banking is all online and purely theoretical; most personal computers are portable and generally smaller than a student’s 3-ring binder and so memories are saved to the software. This is why I purchase records.

I began my vinyl collection in high school. I bought John Denver and Simon and Garfunkel records for $1, although I wasn’t really a fan. Now I spend $20 on albums such as Dark Side of the Moon and Here Comes the Bullocks. When we were young I associated records primarily with marijuana. Southern California stoners played the tunes of their parent’s Flower Power glory days. And because I usually had the munchies I ate it up. Back then I fell into the music, sinking head first into the melodies, harmonies, tempo, and bass of a record. Now I just fall for its tangibility. I can hold the music in my hands rather than clicking a button to play the mp3. Wiping the dust off a record is now so retro. The records are antiques. The past is steadily slipping away from us. And even what was pertinent 30 years ago is becoming a mystery. 

The past is forgotten, and it doesn’t seem to be a problem. Maybe that’s why we are repeating ourselves. I keep looking backwards like the Sankofa bird, but I have no insight into what is/was truth. The textbooks I read have obvious bias and set agendas. The movies I watch are funded by entertainment companies whose priority is profit. The news, the radio, the internet blogs; oh who can trust the media? I should ask my elders. I wanted to ask my Grandmother, but I am hesitant to pick up the phone. Why are we afraid to speak? A friend of mine tells me that really we just don’t want to listen. Talking, like a two-way street, is just too uncomfortable. So we say, “just text me,” or “hit me on facebook.” But Grandma can’t tell me the stories of her Jim Crow past through wall posts and text messages. We need to sit down and talk, push through the inconvenience and discomfort, with knees folded, buttocks to the Earth, to remember who we are.