Postin Up

On sight. Not because I like Kanye or anything. I do. And: can’t I just say some shit? And: can I just give a shoutout right quick to all of tha teachers them in tha class: kudos and mad props to y’all in y’all resolve, in the trenches. Straight up: some of tha for-realest heartbreakers I know be y’all with the anecdotes you be sharin. That and ipso facto. Forget it.

Anyway: really, though, lookin fwd to buildin and everything else we gonna do in Dr. Z’s class this semester en masse. Mostly: curious to know what and how some of y’all think of race and other related points thereof. Like, if colorblindness is a real thing, or are some people just frontin like they can’t see how black a black person when they see a black person. Or: if “culture of poverty” is a real thing people subscribe to out of laziness or being un-white. I hear culture of poverty and I think hippies and hipsterdom. I hear hippies and/or hipsterdom and I think white folks, but that’s me.

In truth, though–and on my mama–didn’t know what to expect of this class. And: I don’t know, TBH. I’m cool, really, with whatever y’all decide–and if we can get some food up in here on Tuesdays that’d be great.

Fun fact: sharks have babyteeth for skin. They also fight to see who’s born. They’re in utero cannibals like that. That’s like a metaphor for intra-racism if you can dig it. Think–crabs in a bucket.

About me now: is that Your Boy a li’l bias (read: touchy) when it come to tha race stuff–and that’s not just because I’m black–just that me don’t like it when people mean to people. And because I’m black. I’m also white somehow. “Jones” ain’t African.

An aside. I remember one day, here Dad come telling stories. He was a kid and my uncle and him saw a black woman throat cut by two white men in Boston, where they grew up. (Fuckin Boston, yo.) And I mostly remember da part when the police came and he say they just had the woman body just hang over a bucket to avoid more DNA being spilt.

Here go another: 2010, in the Woodbridge Twp city of Iselin, NJ. Me and my boy, we hit up this one bar we’d hit theretofore. We get to the door. At the door, here come the bouncer talkin bout–all brutish, too–“We don’t want no homie shit tonight, guys,” and you know me. I’m thinkin: What kinda euphemism that for “Whites Only”? I’m also thinkin: I easily know probably more than half the clientele upinthere because I grew up in this town, played football at the local high school, got friends who parents cops, judges, etc., teachers, who’ve known Yours Truly since I was still fuckin up Huggies–so, what you mean “No Homie Shit,” because a) I ain’t your homie, playboy, and b) THE FUCK?

Now: that don’t hew to too much to what we talkin bout here with writing race. Maybe it do, maybe it don’t. But me thinks it kinda do work as an analogy for random incursions into a random brother or sister’s culture and more thereof. Like, when someone come talkin bout how “talkin black” (or: brotha talk; or: Ebonics; or: BEV) unacceptable incapable of translating anything worthwhile, coherent, is “implausible,” or is nothin but “kill a [n-word]”/”[p]-poppin [behind] [b-word]”/”bang-bang-shoot-em-up,” “drug-dealin” lingo. Stuff is bogus, yo; be messed up.

So. It is my hope that in class this semester we cum correct to each other, open the what up something serious, in a spirit of plurality, so that we, if not pulverize these evildoers, can at least stoke a fire. Mo fiya!

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