Messages to the Black Man

Two images deconstructed. One offered.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter what kind of [black] man I think I am. Sometimes I don’t care to know. Most of the time I don’t care what kind of [black] man others think I should be. But I’d wager that I’ve been a free man ever since I was bold enough to call myself a man. Even before then, when I was a kid, I had some strong feelings that still inform my psyche. When people said “If you’re black, you should take this seriously.” That’s when my Spock eyebrow goes up and I angle myself for combat.

So I took the assignment from my friend Jake and immediately found the most disturbing Woke picture I could find. Because what else is a call to racial consciousness but exactly that? I’ll deadpan “Fascinating”, then comes the left hook. Chances are you have seen this picture before.

Here it is, bam
And you say, "Goddamn, this is the dope jam"
But let's define the term called dope
And you think it mean funky now, nope.

I’ll mock this propaganda which completely breaks the metaphor of baseball and the promise of equality so many ways.

Firstly, as this proposes to be about racial justice, you can immediately see that the physical stature of the three individuals is the reason they can’t see the game. Essentialism much? The question immediately becomes does the shortest one (who might be looking through a hole in the fence) represent the Negro Race? Is that a child or a dwarf? Will he ever grow to full height or is this a genetic deformity? Is this a family or just some randos? Clearly none of them are wearing team colors. How invested are they in this game? Furthermore, what kind of baseball stadium doesn’t have an outfield fence?

Stipulate the fence as a barrier to enjoyment from beyond the cheap seats. If this is a family and the little one is just a little one, why can’t dad put him on his shoulders? Who put the boxes there in the first place? What kind of dysfunctional dad takes his kids to a baseball game just to peek over the outfield fence? Clearly this can’t be a major league game. Can he not afford peanuts and cracker jack?

If the metaphor holds, this is literally about rearranging deck chairs. Some people are indeed too poor to attend a minor league game, but the fence is there for a reason. It is not just to keep people out but to define the home run, the most heartwarming spectacle of the game. If somebody knocks it out of the park, they stand to have more glory than any fan in the stadium. Chances are this dad would keep the ball for himself.

All of that is insulting enough. But this is clearly aimed at children. This is CRT in K12. Period. But wait, there’s more. Here is what we’ve been missing. The director’s cut. Are you ready for this?

Oh the disparity! Oh the humanity! And poor Peewee is in a hole, not just peeping through a hole in the fence. It’s a hole in the ground. He’s in the dirt up to his itty bitty neck of color. Who built that hole, and how did Peewee not see it? I bet it’s been there for over 400 years. Awful. Just awful. But we can’t stop there. Look at the boxes of privilege for Mr. Yellowpants. Why somebody ought to rattle that shaky privilege. Afflict the comfortable!

This brings us to the middle person. It’s clear to me that this (ahem) artist is talking about money. Which must mean that the middle person is the middle class who neither looks up or down at the other spectators of the great game or the mighty terms of wisdom written beneath their feet. They are blissfully unaware of their privilege too. Through all inequality, equality and equity, their position is unchanged.

Not until the [invisible] hand of justice destroys the outfield fence and takes away all the boxes can all three bear equal witness to the great game ‘without supports or accommodations because the causes of the inequity was addressed’. Peewee stays small and will never grow. Justice is served and they’ll never have to earn money or learn what the outfield fence means to baseball. Hurrah! You will all have no boxes and you will be happy about it. And I bet the tall will still catch and keep the ball.

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Those of you who remember how radical I grew up also know that the family mostly buried the hatchet by the mid 70s. In ‘76 we painted our garage red white and blue. The next year I joined the Episcopal Church. I didn’t have any problem being patriotic, which is why this next photo meant so very much to me.

You may remember this too. My reaction was swift and immediate. I could definitely see myself in the fine leather shoes of the black man in the three piece suit. What would I do? I’d snatch the flag away and raise it higher. I’d give it the respect it deserves, which clearly was not coming from the goon on the left. I know lots of folks felt this attack was a perfect metaphor for what America has in store for the black man. Still, I found it difficult to imagine myself going out like a punk. Even though I only stood 5 foot 7 when graduating from high school, at no point would I stand for that. After all, this is my father. He stepped into the yellow footprints of MCRD as did my nephew in his embrace. He too was trained how to destroy the enemy. So we may not be geniuses, but we’re not scared. We defend the flag of the United States of America.

The story of the service of the men in my family is a tome for another time. Today I’d like you to contemplate how images other people take as representative of black men are so likely to go viral.

When I was in my late 20s and early 30s, this inability for the mainstream to get an accurate and intelligent picture of the black culture I called my own was profoundly disturbing to me. Over time it bothered me less and less, and today, well I am quite capable of dodging abused flagpoles and displaying mine properly. Nor is it a big deal for me to attend baseball games. I saw Sandy Koufax pitch his last game at Chavez Ravine.

The insults to intelligence and dignity are always among the many risks of being a free man. For that reason, we have chivalric codes. You never know what the other man is capable of, best to respect all. Alas some people never learn such manners, dizziness and discontentment clouding their vision. One should not be shocked that men are violent. One should think seriously about what can happen in mobs and how quickly and freely they abuse the tools of freedom.

I am proud of Ted Landsmark, though few, including me, knew his name then or have thought of him since. While its annoying that so many took him to be a victim, I was thinking of Bruce Lee heroics and patriotic duty. I wonder if that’s what the photographer who won the Pulitzer thought. I know that’s not what the Wokies think. Orwellian, innit?

Note: I will continue from this moment on to distinguish my interpretations of my GenX black culture (from California) from those things associated with, said about and theorized about the Negro Race. I think I can do the same with the Oriental Race, the Redskins and other Wogs.