To Loot or To Find? Who Decides?

I was all set and ready to post about the horrific disaster in Louisiana and Mississippi. I was all suited up to climb up on my soapbox and exhort you to give to the American Red Cross in the relief effort. And you still should. But I would be remiss if on a blog called Civil Rights Watch, I did not post the following racial irony from news reports on the struggle for survival in New Orleans.

The first picture, from a Yahoo News slideshow, came with the following caption:

A young man walks through chest deep flood water after looting a grocery store in New Orleans on Tuesday, Aug. 30, 2005. Flood waters continue to rise in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina did extensive damage when it made landfall on Monday. (AP Photo/Dave Martin)

The second picture, also from a Yahoo News slideshow, came with this caption:

AFP/Getty Images - Tue Aug 30, 3:47 AM ET Two residents wade through chest-deep water after finding bread and soda from a local grocery store after Hurricane Katrina came through the area in New Orleans, Louisiana.(AFP/Getty
Images/Chris Graythen)

Same place, same day, same situation. Tell me, kind readers, what is the difference between the "young man" who has been "looting" and the "residents" who have been, how shall we put it, "finding"?

When I asked for the benefit of the doubt, I didn't just want it from Congress.

La pigmentocracia en Panamá

I received the article below through email. Unfortunately, we cannot figure out who wrote it or where it originally appeared. For those who do not read Spanish, the article is also unfortunately, entirely in Spanish. In brief, the writer is discussing the absurdity and negative consequences of the pigmentocracy that continues to reign in Latin America. He focuses on Panama, telling his readers that Panama is not exempt from ordering people's value to society based on a pyramid of pigment, with those closest to the European ideal being at the top and all darker skinned people being at the bottom.

A large portion of Panama's population who descended from Caribbean blacks (afro-antillanos) who migrated to Panama in large numbers to construct the Panama Canal. They had a resistance to malaria that the French workers did not have, and unlike the native population of Panama, they were fluent in English and could easily communicate with the American bosses who controlled the construction of the Canal. An interesting note is that many of the Americans who ran the Canal project were from the southern part of the United States and they brought their racial prejudices with them. They quickly set up a "gold" and "silver" system that kept the white Americans and lighter skinned Panamanians in the nicest housing and better grocery stores while the black Panamanians were consigned to the silver system of second class goods and services. Charming.

If you are able, I suggest perusing the article below. It helps to demonstrate the sickness of the obsession with skin color all over the world.

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Panamá no está exenta del apoyo subliminal a los valores de la supremacia blanca globalizada. El racismo es un virus de terror mortal que a través de dos milenios ha causado grandes estragos al impedir un auténtico progreso colectivo.

Hablando de progreso, el día después de la caida de las torres gemelas de Nueva York, descubrimos una transmisión del noticiero CNN en entrevista con Ernesto Butcher, Jefe de Operaciones del Port Authority of NY & NJ (La Autoridad de los Puertos de Nueva York & Nueva Jersey) sobre los hechos que estremecieron la gran babel. Ernesto Butcher, es Panameño de ascendencia afro-antillana - Administrador de la red de transportes más grande del mundo (aeropuertos, ferry, trenes, autobuses, tuneles, puentes, terminales, etc).

La fuga de cerebros como el caso del señor Butcher han sido la norma en Panamá. Por varias décadas, el éxodo de afro-antillanos se debió a la falta de oportunidades dentro del sistema exclusivista. De acuerdo a la norma, es improbable que otro Ernesto Butcher llegara a ser administrador de la Autoridad del Canal de Panamá (ACP). Tampoco Ascanio, quien veiamos frecuentar las canchas callejeras del barrio de Calidonia, hubiera encajado - aún con otros méritos que habría que cultivar. Las reglas del juego de la geopolítica criolla (véase partidocracia) fueron diseñadas para favorecer a la clase oligárquica. La clase que usufructúa sin haber derramado sangre aquel 9 de enero.

La invisibilidad negra durante el pasado acto cultural de la cumbre de Jefes de Estado del Caribe fue deliberada. Sigue un proceso histórico de codificación mental. Una parte de la plaga del colorismo global se origina con la tergiversación de la antigua teología africana a través de los escritos biblicos: La Maldición de Cham, en Genesis 9 v.25, alega que su hijo negro Canaán y sus descendientes serian condenados a la esclavitud. Posterior a esa época, los tentáculos del virus penetran la siquis de los fieles sin disimulo. Por ejemplo, el cuadro hablado de San Miguel Arcángel (caucásico), con una balanza y una espada en cada mano, somete a un hombre negro en el piso - representativo del diablo conquistado. Ese tipo de terrorismo psicológico puede inducir a la demencia, una baja autoestima y ciertos mecanismos de escape: drogas y alcohol.

Es tradicional invisibilizar al negro en Panamá. Para algunos es aceptable la usurpación del nombre de una avenida que le rinde tributo al estado de Jamaica en Balboa, y a la vez, con gran ironia, asignar esa arteria el nombre de un ex-presidente xenófobo. "Fufo", además de inferiorizar a la familia constructora de la "octava maravilla del mundo", con carácter antihumanitario consideró que el lema "Pro Mundi Beneficio" también exceptuaba a los árabes, turcos, armenios, gitanos, chinos, hindostanes y sirios.

Existe una curiosa analogia sobre aseveraciones que se le atribuyen a ciertos inversionistas colombianos, al adquirir acciones en el canal 2 de televisión Panameña, expresaron su disgusto al ver una mujer negra leer las noticias. Pues, para 1910 Doña María Ossa de Amador sintió ofensa similar cuando un negroide, Carlos A. Mendoza, tomó posesión de la silla presidencial que 7 años antes su marido colombiano ocupaba.

No nos engañemos, el virus racial afecta a todos. Omar pudo haber maximizado la revolución con la selección del negro Rómulo como presidente. Royo, el subalterno en las negociaciones del tratado canalero fue escogido y la realidad en la Galeria de Presidentes es otra. Escobar Bethancourt pasó sus últimos días en la soledad frecuentando el mostrador de una cantina en Vista Hermosa.

Oh, ese virus abarca todas las capas sociales. Se acuerdan del prieto Chaflán? el que le enseñó al cholo a usar sus puños desde su niñez. Coronado de laureles, "Mano de Piedra" llegó a decir que ningún negro le ganaba a él en boxeo profesional, hasta que se encontró con un Sugar Ray "no más" Leonard. Por otro lado, "El Chombito Garcia", un mestizo con el rostro pintado al carbón y guantes blancos, se daba un banquete mofándose de las características físicas y expresivas de los afro-antillanos. Por muchos años este Memin Pinguin panameño se exhibia ante el público con transmisiones diarias en vivo desde una tarima de la emisora Radio Mia en la avenida Perú.

El vilipendio esta a la orden del día en el sistema pigmentocrático. Las caricaturas periodísticas, la solicitud de fotos para lograr empleo, el derecho de admisión a establecimientos públicos, el rechazo institucional del cabello rizado, las alusiones en el uso del lenguaje peyorativo ("día negro", "no me cojas de congo", "aguas negras", "mercado negro", etc.)

La mayor parte de los recursos en el sistema se distribuyen de acuerdo a una construcción cromática piramidal. El blanco representa el ápice de privilegios mientras se relega al negro a la base ó su parte inferior. Y la hibridez? Aún cuando se le ubica abajo del fenotipo blanco, para los satisfechos implica un rango superior al negro ya que derivan algunas concesiones dentro del esquema degradante. Aquellos conformistas que no denuncian, cuestionan, ni repudian el racismo(barbaridad disfrazada) están contribuyendo en gran medida a prolongar el subdesarrollo del ser humano.

I'm A Pretty Girl, Mama

Deborah Dickerson wrote an eye-opening article on “Wedding Crashers” recently in Salon. She loved the movie. Everyone I know who has seen it has loved it so I suppose I’ll have to dismiss my misgivings and check it out.

The thrust of Davis’ article was about non-blacks’ general perception of black female beauty and femininity. Davis was perplexed and saddened that black women are not generally considered pretty or feminine by non-black people.

She wrote of a conversation she overheard when an angry young woman was complaining to her friend that she could not believe her boyfriend had left her for a woman with “black girl” hair..

As a young woman in an integrated world, it is extremely difficult to learn that you are not pretty by definition. There is no amount of weight you can lose that will straighten your hair or lighten your skin.

And not too long ago, the overwhelmingly dominant images of beauty were all achingly light-skinned, straight-haired and utterly unattainable. Even in black media, the models were light-skinned with “good” hair. The girls who got boys’ attention at school were also light-skinned with “good” hair. There was no room for dark skin and hair that “went back” after it got wet in the pantheon of beauty. In arguments, black kids would yell at each other: “You pitch-black, tar, period, dot-black. Smile so I can see you.” “Black is beautiful” had its day, but that day had passed by the mid-80’s, early 90’s.

Then there was the question of hair. A beautician can put a mix of chemicals on your head to get your kinky hair ice-skating straight, but the kinkier the hair, the longer you have to leave it on. The longer you leave it on, the more it burns. My hair was particularly resistant to straightening and after a perm, I would be left with scabs on my scalp. The quest for straight hair literally battered me.

Scalp burns aside, I have lived quite comfortably in the invisible netherworld of an individual whose sexuality is so overlooked that she is treated as gender-neutral. Before college, I never harbored any illusions that I might be pretty and very few non-black or black males made me suspect anything different. My hair was not long. My skin was not light and none of my curves were particularly eye-catching. I didn’t think I would scare small children, but I also wasn’t chasing a modeling career. I adjusted my expectations and made very good friendships with non-black men (I didn’t live around a lot of black males and there weren’t any in my classes, so withhold your judgmental vitriol). The arrangement made being smart and a bit of tomboy easy. Even as an adult, I am always confused and taken aback when a white man indicates that he finds me attractive or desirable. It is always unexpected and jarring because it disturbs my paradigm.

Recently I was trying to explain to a group of black teens how my mother and grandmother cried when black women, Vanessa Williams and Suzette Charles, were named Miss America and first runner up in 1983. In a time before Ashanti and Beyonce, even before Whitney Houston dropped her first album in 1985, two black women were chosen as America’s ideal combination of beauty, talent and intellect. It was incredibly moving.

Twelve years after Williams’ and Charles’ triumph, I was at a party in NYC where I was the only black woman. A young white guy with whom I had been chatting invited me back to his house – that night. I was appalled. Do people really--? Can’t he see that I’m --? “Uh, no. No thanks,” I responded politely, “I have a boyfriend.” AWKWARD! At another party, a blond blue-eyed investment banker was perfectly charming and respectful during what I perceived as an innocent conversation until he said, “You know, well, I’m open-minded.” I paused, confused for a second. Then it dawned on me. Open-minded? Open-minded? Really now? To accommodate my three heads, gills and six rows of teeth you have to be open-minded? Open-minded. I am still fired up thinking about it. He should be so lucky.

Like Gypsy Rose Lee, who morphed from the formerly plain Louise in the musical “Gypsy”, I have emerged from near-invisibility to believe that “I’m a pretty girl, mama. I’m a pretty girl.” And the sooner Hollywood realizes that beauty comes in many shades and textures the sooner things will be coming up roses for all of us.

It's Not Family Day When...

There are signs up all over the New York City area (read: Brooklyn) about the 5th Annual Family Day Festival in New Jersey that is being hosted by an organization whose name I have forgotten. The festival is a homage to reggae music, as popular singers such as Buju Banton, will be performing. However, I paused open-mouthed when I read the name of another headliner: Assassin.

I don't care if he sings Barney the purple dinosaur's greatest hits, if an artist named Assassin is performing at your affair, it is NOT Family Day.

Do better.

Random Thoughts: On being an "Indian Giver"

Where did the term "Indian giver" come from, I wondered this morning. I checked out dictionary.com and first I was warned that it is an offensive phrase. Apparently, we should be saying Native American giver (kidding!). Actually, the phrase is a derisive reference to a Native American practice of expecting to receive a gift in return for one given. Yet, that is not how we use "indian giver." Someone is an "indian giver" if he gives a gift and later takes it back or asks for its return. That's not the Native American practice at all. The Native Americans seem to do what we New Americans do every year around the holidays or birthdays. We take people off our gift-giving lists who did not give to us last year. Not because we don't like them, but because we believe in a little quid pro quo, a little reciprocity.

The nasty implications of the modern term "indian giver" has very little to do with reciprocity, and everything to do with greed. So I propose we change the phrase to "Jackson giver" as President Andrew Jackson was the real indian giver. Prior to Jackson's presidency, America's policy had been to permit Native Americans to live peaceably east of Mississippi River as long as they gave up being nomads and became acculturated to the way of life of the budding nation. But playing by the rules still gets you a handful of nothing if you don't have the vote. In 1830, President Jackson signed the Indian Removal Act into law (an ugly name, 120 years later we would euphemize the term, calling it "urban renewal" and focus on poor, mostly colored neighborhoods). The Indian Removal Act authorized Congress to enter into treaties with Native American tribes to move them off of their tribal land and into the newly acquired American West (at that time, the west was Oklahoma. Mexico was still in possession of what is now the American southwest). Under this act of eminent domain writ large, some tribes moved voluntarily after receiving payment and new lands. Others, such as the Cherokee, were forced, resulting in the Trail of Tears during which 7,000 people died. Still other tribes fought back against their evictions, such as the Seminoles in Florida.

If "Jackson giver" doesn't stick, we could try the more general "American giver" or "imperialist giver." I'm just proposing that we give the Native Americans a break. Other than dreams of making a fortune at Foxwoods, what gift did they ever give and then successfully wrest away?A glance at the map above shows that Native Americans were all over North America before Indian Removal became national policy. History shows that we were the ones who consistently tricked and lied to them, giving and then taking away. And to add insult to injury, we tagged them forever with the reputation of being stingy, insincere "indian givers."

Random Thoughts: My People- The Sequel

I am posting an extension and clarification of my remarks with respect to “my people” of July 28. A very good friend of mine sent me an email with some interesting comments, so I would like to clarify my meaning with respect to “my people”.

Opinions are an inappropriate delineator for deciding who are and who are not “my people”. Opinions may separate religious and political groups, but not ethnic groups. For instance, at the 40th Anniversary of Bloody Sunday, we went to see Congresswoman Maxine Waters (D-CA) speak at a morning church service. She had me nodding and tapping my feet until she went to my wallet. Congresswoman Waters suggested that Social Security could be saved without privatization if the ceiling for capping Social Security contributions was raised to $140K of income from $90K. Oh, you should have heard the celebratory uproar from people just eager to go digging in my pockets for prescription drugs. I just sat with my hands in my lap. My aversion to high taxes does not exclude me from my people – it’s just a difference of opinion.

My friend wrote in part: “I think [humans are] designed to be extremely tribal, with every clear delineations between ‘us’ and ‘them’….This desire to put people either inside or outside a circle quickly and easily is natural, but not good.”

When I draw my tenuous lines in the sand, I am drawing them around culture, culture as the broadly defined amalgamation of beliefs, traditions, and shared history that makes us different from one another. Culture is what makes Americans different from the French different from the Japanese. Different cultures are what make diversity and multi-culturalism so appealing. I often feel that in our effort to love everyone and emphasize that everyone is the same we forget that we are all not the same and that that is okay.

A culture that has an Uncle Tom in its background is different from that has a la Malinche which is different from one that has a John Henry. Those differences are what draw circles around us. Surely I believe those circles should be porous, but they are circles just the same. Personally, I belong within many circles – geographic, collegiate, professional and cultural – each one is an important building block of who I am.

Now when I say that Condi and Clarence and some other black neocons behave in a manner that is culturally foreign, I am not trying to impose orthodoxy of thought and I am certainly not condoning those who would kick them out of the racial circle. G-d put them in the circle and only He can take them out. I do, however, reserve my right to say that from what I know of black people, I find their manner of not relating to black people to be culturally foreign. I reiterate that I firmly believe that if we do not hang together, we will hang separately. From a cushy perch up in the White House or academia it may not seem so, but none of my heroes ever left the rank-and-file behind when they became famous or wealthy and I look with derision upon anyone who does so; they are foreign to me. I don’t speak for all black people, just for myself.

YG&B's Best Morning Ever

I walked out of my apartment building this morning and was literally face-to-face with CARSON of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. And there's JAI strolling near the flowerbeds! And is that TED on the phone? Dear G-d in heaven, THOM is fussing with something in a Bentley! Where’s KYAN? Where is he? There he is! An episode of Queer Eye is being shot in my building! I might have died right there and never wanted for a thing. When I saw Slick Rick and Dana Dane perform “Bedtime Story” live at the Apollo, I thought that life could offer no greater delight, but now I know joy is truly limitless.

I consider myself to be relatively cool around celebrities. I spent a lot of time growing up in LA where it was important to be blasé about the celebrities who mill about. I got tongue-tied and misty-eyed when I met Cornel West in an airport but I was utterly bored when I saw Eric La Salle and another woman from ER at the Promenade in Santa Monica. I thought I was cool. But walking out of my building into the loving arms of Queer Eye, I stumbled, I talked to myself; I had to sit on a planter and call into work, asking that I not be fired for getting my Queer Eye on.

Let me explain something of my background with Queer Eye. There was a time, during my adjustment to NYC, when I was really sad. My job blew; my apartment blew: I was surrounded on all sides by “musicians” who played incessantly and the woman upstairs intermittently hosted a full band practice (I’m talking drums, guitar, keyboards and vocals) and practiced her Lord of the Dance routine all day and all night. The lack of peace at home and at work made my life in the Big Apple decidedly rotten. Then there was Queer Eye. Five energetic, funny, gay men who are experts in their fields – fashion, food & wine, interior decorating, grooming and culture (don’t hate on Jai, he was Angel in “Rent”) —get a straight man set up with new tools that boost his self-esteem and teach him a little bit about how to make his external image and his surroundings better reflect who he is on the inside. The Fab Five, as they are collectively known, bounced into my living room every Tuesday night with energy and a joie de vivre that made me believe in the catchy theme song, “All things just keep getting better.” Queer Eye lightened my spirit.

Queer Eye is not billed as a “makeover” show, but as a “make better” show. The Fab Five have helped elderly widowers take the first steps back out into dating, gotten their charges ready for breakout nights performing, assisted budding entrepreneurs in hosting business launch parties; they have presided over countless engagements (who could forget the Armenian backyard love nest Thom created!), and even helped a nudist to peacefully and fashionably co-exist with his mother and daughter (I won’t judge why a 39 year-old nudist still lives at home with his mom. Well, I will judge a little bit).

As I sat there starry-eyed and grinning stupidly, a man from the crew came over and told me I could go talk to the guys and get their autographs. No, little me? I’m not worthy. But, if you insist. I spoke to Jai first. Then I talked to Thom and told him that he is a genius (I wasn’t kissing up, he is! I’ve said it in the privacy of my own living room!). Thom hugged me! I also got a chance to talk to Kyan (yes, he is hotter in real life) who was just unnecessarily kind. Carson was mobbed by some other women taking a picture with him then he had to run off to shoot a scene, but I like to believe he smiled at me. Ted was also whisked away before I got a chance to beg him to please please pretty please I promise I’ll cook if you’ll just put out a cookbook.

The Fab Five were wonderful; they were kind and appreciative of their fans. They did not rush me out of the aura of their glow. The crew was uncharacteristically welcoming and let me hang around and chat after the guys went off to shoot a scene.

If you haven’t before, please give the Fab Five a try. They will make you happy, and that’s the highest aim of television. On the east coast, you can see them on Tuesday nights at 10pm on Bravo.

My VH1 Best Morning Ever: All things just keep getting better…..