I’ve seen too many polls as of late regarding this racism thing in the United States. More than anything, I am confounded by the manner in which the ‘information’ is delivered, newscasters frowning as they read, “Black people don’t trust authority and white people can’t understand why that is.” It’s like the damn gun issue – everyone talking and no one listening.
Here’s my dime: It’s going to take a long time yet for this society to recover from the abomination that was slavery.And for any positive changes to occur, whites need to be a hell of a lot more understanding, accommodating and trusting toward blacks. (Exclamation point.)
I just need this drink to be content. Just that, the refreshment, the alcohol in my blood at the right percentage. Ah, yes…there! I am content, genuinely and truly so.
It’s nice to feel like this, to have everything set, the holidays approaching, the weather cool and crisp, all emails answered, assignments managed, my work going fine. My Bad Side will be published one day, The Ark is finally coming together, and the first draft of Glenayr is almost there. Friends and family are healthy – Micaela happy and More Art prospering – and the Leafs are actually winning.
Yes, everything is all right…although, now that I think about it, the Leafs could be more consistent, especially in the defensive end.
And, well, my brother won’t talk to me, and More Art could use more grant money. Glenayr lacks a clear antagonist, and, to be honest, The Ark will be impossible to finish. An email from Fedex? Claim rejected? Damn it, I forgot to call my doctor, and I have to set up the website for next week. Yeah, and it’s going to snow.
I hear what you’re saying. I do. I honestly understand. But here’s the thing. You need to listen to me. Just listen. And don’t say anything back. Okay? Are you listening? Good. The first thing is that I appreciate you trying to reach out, but you need to respect my personal space. And spare me the guise of thanking me for making the effort. It just doesn’t ring true. I am not interested in a phony relationship without attempting to solve our real problems. It is my belief that you and I can’t solve our issues alone. It isn’t a matter of perception; it’s just straight-forward reasoning. It’s too painful to interact with you in a deep way. You cause me nothing but pain.You said it yourself. You don’t trust me and therefore cannot open up. And so, by your own admission, your suggestion is doomed to failure, right? And if you don’t like what I have to say, don’t ever call or email me again! Don’t worry, I won’t contact you first.
More Arthas produced another fascinating public work of art in New York City: The Impossibility of Freedom in a Country Founded on Slavery and Genocide, conceived and performed by Dread Scott. While the title might be a mouthful, so is the concept, an idea that no one seems to want to accept or seriously consider beyond the platitudes spat in cross-fire talking-head vents. Mr. Scott performed the work before two hundred transfixed spectators, many of them school children, under the Manhattan Bridge in Brooklyn in early October. A video of the work, recently released by More Art and available here, is worth viewing. Neither cute nor clever, it asks us instead what it is that we are doing with our lives in this world we cherish as free?
I went to a movie with Justice Stephen Breyer last night. It was a classic:The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, directed by John Ford, starring John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart and Lee Marvin. To my surprise, it wasn’t made in the heyday of the Western, but rather 1962, and so revealed a genre on the decline, stumbling between haphazard morality speeches, comic drunken bits and a camera that lingered too long over everything. Justice Breyer loved it though, praising its themes of justice which espoused the eternal need for “Achilles shield” behind lawyers and judges. He went on to reflect upon the process in the Supreme Court, how there were never raised voices, no matter the issue, and that the 5-4 decisions were always different combinations. He added that the experiment of the United States of America, although temporal, would carry on for many more years. (Everyone at the 92nd Street Y applauded that.)
“What system?” He was small and intense, his square jaw set.
“Apple.” The other guy was bigger and shaggier with glasses and an absent-minded smile.
“Platform?” He drank his Hefeweizen in gulps.
“Apps mostly.” He sipped, shrugging slightly, almost like a Teddy Bear.
I didn’t know them – they were friends of an acquaintance I had recently made – and while waiting for the conversation to make a better turn, looked between them, out the tavern window, at a couple who had suddenly engaged in a kiss. There were no tongues, no sloppy drunkenness, but a constant embrace of their lips.He had his hands on her face, bringing her closer in. And she acquiesced.
“Broadband,” the intense one asserted.
“Protocol?” The Teddy Bear inquired.
The couple was apart, as suddenly as they had started, looking into each other’s eyes, he a little more desperately, beseeching for her to understand, and she acquiescing to that.
“The job isn’t on the clock.”
“When it’s done, it’s done.”
They stood on the sidewalk, talking casually, laughing, and held their cigarillos like lovers do.
That’s when I noticed that my new acquaintances had gone quiet, both of them looking at me and waiting for me to say something too.
“What you lookin’ at? Who said you could look at me like that, sir?” He was young, maybe 25, with a stylish felt hat and two bright gold studs. “Who do you think you are? You know what would happen if you did that in the hood? I’ll tell you what would happen. First I’d get up in your face…”
Like everyone on the subway, Micaela and I hoped the stylish young man would stop yelling at the 60-year-old on the bench opposite.
“And then I’d fuck your daughter, man–”
That was too much. “Okay, that’s enough.”
He flashed his eyes at me, trying to mock. “Let me make my point, man! I’m making my point!”
“You’re yelling profanities on the subway.”
He smirked, pulling one of his earplugs half out. “If we was in the hood, me and my goons would fuck you up.”
“Just listen to your music and leave everyone alone.”
“In the fuckin’ hood–”
“Enough of that.” Another man stepped in, and the stylish young man quieted down, only chuckling to himself.
An uneasy silence fell over the car. I told Micaela about being spied on at the conference and tried to make it funny.
“I’m trying to make a point, man!” The stylish young man suddenly stood and glared at me with crazy eyes. “Let me tell you about the fucking hood, man.”
“People just want to go home after working.” It seemed I was stuck with him now. “They don’t want to be yelled at.”
“I don’t want to be paid by you, man! I don’t want your money.”
“You’re yelling profanities on the subway.”
“You don’t pay me, man! I don’t want your money!”
First one voice and then another spoke out. “Stop it! Nobody wants to hear you!”
“In the hood, I’d get my goons–”
“Nobody cares!” A distant voice snapped.
“I’m trying to make a point. I don’t need you people ganging up on me. I don’t need that. In the hood–”
The subway doors open behind me, and the stylish young man came past. He didn’t even look at me, at anybody, and instead to yelling on the platform. “I’m trying to make a point, man. You can’t fuckin’ look at me like that, man!”
Occupy Wall Street’s dramatic days seem much further back than four years ago. Remnants of the movement gathered on Broadway yesterday to promote “a flood on Wall Street”. They had banners and bears. And lots of singing. And yelling at the powers that be.While the police watched and waited.
“You think what you think and I think what I think and there’s no way we’re ever going to convince each other, so my suggestion is that we just drop it.” This is Our Youth, a play about spoiled Manhattan kids adrift in their inertia, opened on Broadway last week to some acclaim. Starring Michael Cera, Kieran Culkin and Tavi Gevinson, the story doesn’t go anywhere – something like Waiting for Godot but with more of an actual plot – but offers oddly astute and amusing moments. Cera’s deadpan delivery and Gevinson’s overwrought performance flesh out the writing of Kenneth Lonergan with an effect that is surprisingly both grating and thought-provoking. While the message isn’t a new one – bombastic youth pontificating on truth at each other – it does remind us of our own confused aspirations, something best paraphrased by King Oscar II of Sweden in 1923. One who has not been a socialist before 25 has no heart. If one remains one after 25, he has no head.
We were coming home from the airport last night, waiting for the E train at Jamaica Station, but the wait wasn’t bad. A street artist, in a helmet horned with fiberglass, performed a crucifixion of sorts with odd moaning music in the background, as the passing people gaped and laughed. (Click to view!!)The message was unclear, except that street art helps pass the time.
More than anything, I am confounded by the manner in which the ‘information’ is delivered, newscasters frowning as they read, “Black people don’t trust authority and white people can’t understand why that is.” 
It’s like the damn gun issue – everyone talking and no one listening.
And for any positive changes to occur, whites need to be a hell of a lot more understanding, accommodating and trusting toward blacks. (Exclamation point.)
