Community · ethnography · Language · observations · power · research · social observation · Sociology · trauma

I Don’t See Color

Here’s a phrase that sincerely chaps my ass. What if the police ask you to describe me? Whachugonsay?

Discovered my disgust with this statement after getting into a discussion about who can and can’t say nigger. We concluded with the thought that anyone can say anything (conditional) because this is a country that constitutionally guarantees freedom of speech. I added that saying anything means being ready and able to take the consequences of those utterances.

See, you can’t say nigger to everyone. I don’t care how you spell it, inflect it, think it’s cute or a term of endearment, you can’t say that to everyone. Some folks have a reflexive action to being called nigger. They will bust you in the mouth, with love, ’cause they ain’t having it. I think I am one of those people.

Nigger is a slur, an ethnophaulism. How’d you like it if I walked up to you and called you my Dago, my Wop, my Mick, my Chink, my Gook, my Buddhahead, my Guinea, my Spic, my Kike, (recent) my Beaner? Does it grate a little? If not, do you know someone who might not share your attitude?

It is difficult to find a slur for whites that carries the same punch as nigger. By becoming white, those ethnics who look more like the dominant group eventually became white. Hunky or honky no longer packed a punch. Even Jews thought, and think, they were white. It only takes a second to be disabused of that notion when faced with real crackers who think the kikes are out to replace them.

We are all color struck. We are overly concerned with the color of another’s skin because to be anything other than a variation of pink is to be diminished in the world. We don’t talk about slavery. We don’t talk about Jim Crow. We don’t talk about the Trail of Tears. We don’t talk about segregation, an active factor in our lives today. Why are we all color struck, especially those who come here from other countries where there may or may not be a racial history of torture and abuse? Loss of cultural and historical memory? Loss of self-awareness? Loss of our humanity? For certain, it is because we have been taught to be conscious of color, particularly for purposes of differentiation and separation.

We need to speak to one another in the way we wish to be addressed. Don’t come @ me with your nigger speak. I really will bust you in your mouth, with love, and dare you to call the police. Since you don’t see color, you won’t be able to give a credible description and I will go on my way, hoping I taught you something of value.

Class · Community · Diversions · ethnography · Fiction · News and politics · research · Sociology

Sourest of Grapes: A letter from the great-great-granddaughter of Jesse B. Semple

 

Hey, Grrl!

Mom told me that them Texas crackers didn’t ‘preciate seeing Black people doing better than they were. Didn’t like the fact that even though they had their collective foot on Black folks’ neck that they had better cars, better houses, dressed with style and flair, and the men had far more sexually exotic women.

My bf told me his dad would not drive the new car he’d earned working hard for Mr. Chawly every day because he’d never get another raise or promotion if he did.

Bronco Baama didn’t carry the white, working-class-wanna-be-middle-class men because they don’t like the fact that he’s got a better car, better house, is better dressed and has a wife who is way hotter than theirs. He irks Congress because he’s beaten them at their own game, broken down the gates of the last bastion of the good ol’ boys, and looks better while he plays.

Let us not forget he IS a lawyer. Indicating he’s better educated, well-traveled, intercultural, and while many have tried to question his birthplace, no one has challenged his credentials.  Yet, I heard Mittens call Bronco Baama a boy and a liar, in front of millions, with the recalling of one anecdote during the first presidential debate. He’s the mouthpiece of his undereducated, working-and-lower-class, underinformed, tea-party base (crackas), which is ludicrous as he’s rich as Croesus and hasn’t much of a clue about how the little people live, despite his experience as a Mormon bishop.

The last gasp of a redundant class smells of the sourest of grapes.

Chin-Chin; (I learned that watching Call the Midwife. I absolutely adore Chummy!)

Jesseca

Why Uncle Joe can do what he do