Revisiting Our (American) Roots DJANGO: UNCHAINED

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What did I think of it ?

Ridiculous.  But then so was Jackie Browne, Kill Bill 2 & 1.  So was Pulp Fiction. So was Killing Zoe.  So, you see….I’ve been a fan of the ridiculous for quite some time.  In my opinion,Quentin Tarantino has a unique way of blending the serious with the ridiculous which I enjoy and admire.

The movie was way too long…but then, that’s probably his point.  Some things just go on way too long.

Historical accuracy?  Who cares.  Maybe there was no slavery. No European Holocaust.  No Bubonic Plague wagons. No Crusades.  Just a long history of  warm, loving populations all over the world inspiring one another toward greatness.  Cumbaya and all that.

In other words, I would highly recommend this movie to people …adult people…with strong stomachs AND a twisted sense of humor.

UGLY WORDS AND “JACKED UP” CONCEPTS

(google images)

This is a reprint of a blog I posted last year…I suppose it still “holds up”:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes I feel that someone has vandalized the culture of the American English language, spray painted all over it. Just trampled rough shod all over the beauty, nuances and melodies of our words and expressions. Or … perhaps I’ve just been romantically involved…cohabitating… with this seductive, mesmerising and thoroughly precise French language for a long, long time.

The following are some of the words that create a feeling of a whooshing whirlpool of churning acid in the pit of my stomach whenever they are uttered in my presence:

Political Correctness: (adjectivally, politically correct; both forms commonly abbreviated to PC) is a term which denotes language, ideas, policies, and behavior seen as seeking to minimize social and institutional offense in occupational, gender, racial, cultural, sexual orientation, certain other religions, beliefs or ideologies, disability, and age-related contexts, and, as purported by the term, doing so to an excessive extent.

Poppy cock on all of that! The most precise word, which has existed long before the invention of that awkward phrase would be Diplomacy. Simple diplomacy and respect toward other human beings. What does it take to grant everyone their humanity by displaying basic sensitivity? Not that complex, really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Twitter or Tweet. An insult to birds and human beings. Personally I maintain communications with my friends, relatives and acquaintences, through letters,phone calls, cards, and emails. Birds communicate…at least the ones inmy neighbourhood… though sophisticated vocal projections!

Newbie. Sound like a child’s toy, not a human being.

Venue : the locality where a crime is committed or a cause of action occurs; b. The locality or political division from which a jury is called and in which a trial is held; c. The clause within a declaration naming the locality in which a trial will be held; d. The clause in an affidavit naming the place where it was sworn to.

Mostly negative connotations…n’est-ce-pas?

Moi…I as a writer would prefer having a reading in a bookstore or anauditorium, as a painter I would show in a gallery, as a performer I would expect to appear in a nightclub, concert hall, stadium or theatre.

Who needs Venues? Sounds suspicious to me. I’d stay away from ’em, myself.

Foodie. Sounds like a word that a hungry toddler would use trying to get its parents attention.

I feel that one may be a gourmet or connoisseur, otherwise just an ordinary human being who must eat to live. On the other hand if one believes that one “lives to eat” that would mean that there is some sort of medical disorder which should be explored by a doctor of some kind…if you get my drift!

Blog. Such and ugly word. Soulds like something that would be clogging up my drain pipe.. I ‘d prefer to think of your so-called blogs as personal journals and thoughts that you choose to share with me… giftsofferings. Something precious and beautiful.

Niggah. No matter what the spelling or context, it’s ridiculoulsly insulting, unessessary and should eventually cease to exist, along with such terminologies as Honky, Spic, Kike, Wop, Chink, Wog, Bitch….etc.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Continuing with vocabulary which just “peeves me off” as an American Blaxpat in France:

Going viral : Viral marketing, viral advertising, or marketing buzz are buzzwords referring to marketing techniques that use pre-existing social networks to produce increases in brand awareness or to achieve other marketing objectives (such as product sales) through self-replicating viral processes, analogous to the spread of viruses or computer viruses…

Yada… yada… yada…yada…oh, Honey..pul-eese! The word Viral has the most horrific connotation I can image, conjuring up flu viruses, Leprocy, communicable diseases like the Bubonic Plague and A.I.D.S.

Transparency: a. Easily seen through or detected; obvious: transparent lies; .b. Free from guile; candid or open: transparent sincerity.

There is a fine line between clarity or honesty and a transparency which could render one completely vulnerable to manipulation and destruction. As in: “he/she is such a transparent fool!”

 

 

 

 

 

To Grow Your Jobs, Businesss or Money: If I wanted agricultural advice, I’d consult a Farmer or an Agronomist. Otherwise, I would prefer to expand my business, augment my investments, increase the number of jobs in order to restore the strength of our economy.

But then, what do I know?

An excerpt from LADYFINGERS: a novel

(google images)

“Sometimes a girl just chooses the wrong boyfriend. Or maybe a person’s timing is just for shit!” Muriel McCracken thought as she drove over to visit with her man Eddie Hayes, who still had 5 years more to serve in Elmira Correctional Institution.

They hadn’t seen one another in over 5 years, since she, herself, had been

locked up in the Women’s Prison for all that time after the unfortunate situation

that occurred after they both walked out on their jobs at that taxi company

and had gotten busted the same day.

Life was a pisser, as Eddie would say.

At the light stop, she took the opportunity to check how she looked by

briefly readjusting her rear view mirror of her brand-new Cadillac convertible.

She wanted to look good for Eddie, since she wouldn’t be making these visits

for a long while, since she had decided to take her new money and get the hell

out of the country for awhile.

She fluffed up her brand new ash-blonde coiffure with her fingers and

quickly freshened up her ‘Ice Lover’s’ pink lipstick, which she had forgotten to

do after having her hamburger…her last from this day forward…when she’d

stopped off for lunch at the “Quick Stop Palace” off the freeway.

She just loved her new make-over look. That Madame Arthuretta Bozell

was a genius! Her new socialite look would definitely give Ivana Trump a run

for her money.

She was sure that Eddie would love it, too.

Poor Eddie.

Poor Muriel.

Muriel loved Eddie and Eddie loved Muriel, but look where it got them.

She would find the best lawyer on earth and get him out of the joint as fast

as big money could buy.

The week after she was released from jail and had settled into her single

room occupancy hotel, as a lark, she filled out one of those Publisher’s Clearing

House contest sweepstakes papers. She hadn’t even subscribed to any of

their magazines. She’d never been much into reading until Madame Bozell

turned her on to those decorating and fancy lifestyle magazines a few months

ago.

The next thing she knew, six months later, there they were, in the lobby of

her hotel…Dick Clark and Ed McMahon…with some balloons, a limo, a bottle

of champagne and a huge check for 20 million dollars!

She fainted.

When she finally soaked it all in, she went to see Eddie and told him. Of

course, he had already heard about it. Seen it on the news. In fact everyone in

his jailhouse and in the world had seemed to have heard about her newly

acquired fortune.

He had seemed happy for her. Even told her to go on with her life…to forget

about him.

That was impossible.

She had fallen in love with him the first day she met him. He would be in

her heart and head for life. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t have a choice in

these matters of love.

Muriel McCracken certainly didn’t. And she told him so.

Someone beeped a horn from behind, jolting her thoughts. She quickly

adjusted the rear view mirror back in place, dropped her lipstick tube in her

purse in the passenger seat next to her, stepped on the accelerator and continued

to drive to her destination.

She’d never forget the day she met Eddie Hayes.

Muriel had been living with her parents in their rented house ever since her

divorce from her ex-husband, Georges Callahan, from Desertville, Nevada,

who had turned out to be a violent, sick and twisted individual.

Well…there had been some problem of some kind with trees or bushes or

something and the neighbors next door. So Eddie, who owned her parents’

property, among several others (Eddie had been quite a successful businessman,

in his day) made an appointment to assess the situation. Her folks had

never met the owner, so when he arrived and started up the walkway, her

father came out with a shotgun yelling, “what are you doing on my property,

boy!” and then shot him.

That’s why Eddie has that limp.

Muriel ran out to help Eddie, found out why he was there and then had her

folks call the ambulance.

She accompanied Eddie to the hospital and after that, she moved away from

her folks’ house and have never seen them since.

They would never have been able to tolerate her relationship with Eddie

Hayes and Muriel had respected that.

So…it was ‘bye bye…so long. Gotta go.’ She slammed the door shut on

them before they had a chance to do it to her. She hadn’t missed them at all.

Why should she?

After all those years in the Penn, Eddie still looked good. Healthy. Although

a bit disorientated. But she could handle it, as long as he still loved her.

And he did.

She smiled at him through the partition that separated them and picked up

the prison phone.

“How are you doing, baby?” she asked breathlessly into the receiver.

His big, brown eyes made her heart melt. She longed to caress, again, those

long, thick dreadlocks and her body tingled at the sheen of his sable colored

skin which she remembered as the warmest and smoothest that she had ever

felt in her life.

“Can’t complain…can I?” he had joked, in his Eddie way.

“You can to me, sugar,” she chuckled into the phone.

After Eddie’s foot healed as much as it could, they had moved into his

house.

Things happen, you know?

So…circumstances demanded that they get out of the town they were in

and they ended up in a really nice co-op apartment in the Bronx, in New York

City.

They had set up their system. She had become a dispatcher at the cab company

and he drove a cab.

Those weird Pakistanis messed up everything!

That day, after his shift, Eddie had brought his cab back to the station.

Those rag heads…forgive me, Lord…she thought making the sign of the cross,

as she apologized for her thoughts, accused Eddie of not picking up black fares.“We cannot have you here if we continue to receive complaints from the

black people that you pass them by in our cabs!” the head boss had accused.

“We have had 30 complaints today!” the wife of the boss had screamed.

Muriel was as mad as hell and speechless, even though all Eddie did was

laugh as if he were at some kind of stand up comedy show.

Finally, she got her speech back and yelled, “This is ridiculous! Why would

Eddie refuse to pick up black people when he is a black man himself, you

fools!”

“You are fired!” the two idiots yelled at the same time.

“No, we’re both outtah here!” Eddie yelled back in her defense.

They walked out together. They’d find another system, they’d agreed.

Eddie’s a sweet but often naive man, she had thought. He had told her that

they had fired them to make room for some relatives from Delhi (she had no

idea, after all where that was since she had never studied any geography), who

he had said they were sponsoring to come to America.

But she, Muriel McCracken, knew beyond the shadow of the doubt that

they were simply prejudiced against Eddie, just like her folks were, because he

is a Negro.

“So, baby, what are you planning to do? I’m sure with all your money,

they’ve escorted you out of your cashier’s job at Walbaums. Am I right?”

“Don’t be funny, Eddie. You know I left that job as soon as they showed me

that check!”

“Um hum,” he smiled, broadly, in that Eddie way.

“I got you a good lawyer…”

“And if I get out…”

“You mean…when you get out. I’ve got plans for us. I’m setting up a life for

us in the South of France. What do you think of that?” She tapped her fingers

nervously on the table in front of her, waiting for his answer.

“Sounds…different. Life is a pisser.” He scratched his head and looked

behind him, nervously.

“Look at me, baby! Don’t turn away. You see, I’ll be staying at the Negresco

Hotel, in Nice, France, until I find a house for us. You’ll write me there, okay?”

“Yeah, whatever…”

“Stop that! Don’t talk like that! I have everything under control.”

“I’m sure you do, Muriel, honey. I’ll see you in France then, right?”

“As right as rain on a desert, mon cheri,” she said, fluffing up her hair again

to see if he noticed her new style.

82 Ladyfingers

“I love you, girl. You’re looking very pretty, Muriel, with your new hair style

and all. What did you do?”

“I heard that it was true that blondes have more fun!” she laughed, standing

up to kiss him through the partition.

“I preferred your red-pepper, Irish girl hair, baby.”

“Too bad. Everybody has got to try something new sometimes. When you

get out, I might even be speaking Français. What do you think about that?”

“Très bon,” Eddie laughed and then stood up to return her kiss though the

partition.

available from Amazon.com

Hardcover, Trade Paprback and Kindle editions

 

DIVIDE AND CONQUER

(google images)

So, today I ran across this headline:

“CANNES FILM FESTIVAL SLAMMED BY FEMINIST GROUP LA BARBE FOR EXCLUDING WOMEN DIRECTORS”

The feminist group La Barbe which started several years ago  in response to the sexist media treatment of Segolene Royal in her race against Nicholas Sarkozy, has taken on one of the most sexist film establishments, the Cannes Film Festival for its exclusion of female directors from this year’s competition. They are kind of like the Guerilla Girls in that they dress up in beards and as they say “crash high level meetings to protest male supremacy.”)

This is my assessment of the situation:

Divide and Rule: 

In politics and sociology, divide and rule (derived from Latin divide et impera) also known as divide and conquer is a combination of political, military and economic strategy of gaining and maintaining power by breaking up larger concentrations of power into chunks that individually have less power than the one implementing the strategy. The concept refers to a strategy that breaks up existing power structures and prevents smaller power groups from linking up.

 Elements of this technique involve:

creating or encouraging divisions among the subjects in order to prevent alliances that could challenge the sovereign

  • aiding and promoting those who are willing to cooperate with the sovereign
  • fostering distrust and enmity between local rulers
  • encouraging meaningless expenditures that reduce the capability for political and military spending

Historically this strategy was used in many different ways by empires seeking to expand their territories.

As a Black American let me give you Mother Africa as an example:

art by Ben Heine

The divide and conquer strategy was used by foreign countries in Africa during the colonial and post-colonial period.

 Germany and Belgium ruled Rwanda and Burundi in a colonial capacity. Germany used the strategy of divide and conquer by placing members of the Tutsi minority in positions of power. When Belgium took over colonial rule in 1916, the Tutsi and Hutu groups were rearranged according to race instead of occupation. Belgium defined “Tutsi” as anyone with more than ten cows or a long nose, while “Hutu” meant someone with less than ten cows and a broad nose. The socioeconomic divide between Tutsis and Hutus continued after independence and was a major factor in the Rwandan Genocide.

Another example:

During British rule of Nigeria from 1900 to 1960, different regions were frequently reclassified for administrative purposes. The conflict between the Igbo and Hausa made it easier for the British to consolidate their power in the region.

  • Regional, ethnic, and religious splits remain a barrier to uniting Nigeria, today.
Where am I going with this, you ask?
 
You see, my analysis of the Cannes film festival situation and the film industry in general is this: perhaps if we women weren’t so bogged down in ideological wars between Lesbians and Straights, none of this kind of thing would be happening… on such an international level, no less!.

Afterall, women are a majority group, right?

Talk to you later…

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Racial Programming 101

In response to the general reactions of the American public  to the murder of Trayvon Marin  by George Zimmerman, I would like to offer a quote from a novel by E. Lynn Harris entitled Invisible Life.

   “Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, must be a duck…but then again, it might not be a duck…” ~anonymous,

excerpt from the E. Lynn Harris novel Invisible Life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In other words, everything that looks racially motivated may not be.

Advice to Expats Everywhere….

Uncle Remus and Friends (goole images)

“Boy,

what ever you is and where ever you is,

don’t be what you ain’t,

because when you is what you ain’t,

you isn’t.”

 ~Uncle Remus

…and I’m sure you all know who I’m referring to!

Blind Sighted In America

(google images)

I was on a transatlantic flight not long ago, where I decided to watch a re-run of The Bill Cosby Show.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Although decades had passed, I clearly recalled the controversy it elicited throughout the nation…particularly among it’s black population.  There had been outraged cries of “Blacks don’t live like that!”,

“This is not an honest portrayal of black family life in America!”  

I remember heated discussions concerning the plausibility of the characters of the show, but I had a nagging sensation all along that the critics were slightly off mark.  I never gave further thought to the matter until that flight from Geneva, Switzerland to NYC  many, many years later when the most obvious and overlooked aspect to the show hit me with the impact of a speeding Max Truck!

When I returned home, I remembered I had a memoir by writer Susan Fales-Hill, who was a writer for the show from its inception (Ms. Fales- Hill  is of black Haitian American and white Anglo Saxon descent) .  She described an incident challenging the credibility of the Cosby family, existence from a colleague:


***“This family isn’t black, they’re Jewish!” This fifty-something executive with bifocals and greying hair exclaimed over my shoulder as  I viewed an episode from the Cosby Show’s first season in the Viacom conference room.  I hardly new this man; he worked on the syndication side of things, and I as a writer’s apprentice.  Yet he stood telling me a virtual stranger, a black stranger, no less,  that the Huxtable had no counterparts in reality.    I sat for a moment speechless and stunned by the double-barreled assault of his arrogance and his ignorance.  I then calmly asked him what he meant, curious to see this self appointed arbiter of American negritude defend his point of view.

“Look at them,” he answered agitated, “she’s a lawyer, he’s a doctor, they live in that… house!”

You know, believe it or not, I have come to agree with the syndication guy!  But before we get to the most obvious issue, let me digress a bit.

If one remembers the Cosby Show, one would remember that the father of the house was an OBGYN who worked from the office of the family’s Brooklyn town house.  His wife, the mother of the house, was a partner in a New York Law firm.  THEY HAD FIVE…count ‘em…FIVE kids.  That’s right!  When on earth would the two of them have had the time to create such as scenario with such high- powered professions and all?.

Of course there is this possibility:   remember the Brady Bunch?  A widow and widower, with three children each  join together becoming a family of six children, and  a maid.

Umm humm…I hope you’re beginning to see the light.

Which now brings me directly to my point.

Now…look…really look, I say… at the family:

Now take a good look at the chirrrrr rren’ (as the colored old folks would say)

First Set of Kids:

Actress, Lisa Bonet
actress, Sabrina Le Beauf

Second set of Kids!

actor Malcolm Jamal Warner
actress Tempesst Bledsoe
atress Keisha Knight Pulliam

Isn’ t it obvious that the oldest children are the offspring of  a Caucasian parent?  The question should be, ‘whose mullato children deese be?  Da Momma’s oh de daddy’s?

Perhaps Mr. Syndication was not questioning the house  (almost anybody could live in a brownstone in Brooklyn) as much as he was questioning the entire dynamic of the HOME.

My advice to America.  Wake up and find an optomotrist!!!

Wonder what else has been overlooked over there?

I guess it’s too late now…right?

***excerpt from ALWAYS WEAR JOY: My Mother Bold and Beautiful, by Susan Fales-Hill

Myopia, Poverty Foreclosure: A Logical Sequence of Events

Rosie the Riveter

Recently I received a letter from a male friend in response to a blog I wrote concerning  the precarious state of the European Union.  My friend, a native New Yorker, is an educator, activist and Fulbright scholar and has for decades lived on the West Coast.  Here is an excerpt from his correspondence:

 

“I’m not sure what steps concealed the deconstruction of the middle class in Europe, if there has been such a deconstruction; but I know this one for the US. First we added a second working adult to the definition of middle class – so that two incomes were needed to produce the lifestyle previously accomplished with one. Then we offset flattened salaries with housing inflation so that the middle class could maintain once again the same lifestyle by borrowing off of its housing. And we lowered the costs of most everyday products by having them made in places where people earn only a couple of bucks a day for their labor. All the time, the share of the assets owned by those at the top, whose tax burden we steadily reduced to the point of starving government.”

 

This is my response:

When I was growing up in a moderately middle class black American family in New York City, my parents and their peers lived with a particular philosophy. 

Although, both of my parents worked, my mother remained a homemaker until the last of her children reached school age.  There were three of us.  Their philosophy was that in a family, the role of the father’s income was to determine the standard of living in a family; the wife’s income would contribute to the quality of life.  You see, this way, if one were to loose his/her  job, the other could be able to kick for  the duration, with minimum and workable adjustments in its day-to -day standard of living requirements.

In addition, the philosophy was that a family should never purchase a home where both full salaries would be required in order to qualify for a mortgage.  This would often mean that one have to live in Brooklyn instead of Manhattan, Stanford, instead of Greenwich, Pasadena instead of Beverly Hills, Oakland instead of Sausalito, if you understand my meaning.  This way, one wouldn’t accumulate unnecessary overhead, thus limiting the economical mobility of the family which the mother’s additional income could provide.  The mother’s income was to be used primarily for quality of life issues such as planning for higher education for the children and also for the cultural enrichment of their intellectual and spiritual growth.

My family’s philosophy evolved in a culture… a black American culture… where historically both the female and the male worked outside the home for its survival.  (Of course, I realize that I’m talking basically about my own family and their peers, not the general American community, black, white or other.)

When the American ethnic majority, through their women’s coercive tactics, reluctantly gave into their demands for the right to work for fair economic compensation, no theory was put in place as to how this would work in order to maintain the financial equilibrium of a family unit.

A backlash then ensued which granted women unequal, inferior, pay for equal work and at the same time required that in order to achieve a decent standard of living it would be necessary to find access to more than one paycheck for each housing unit, in most areas of the United States..

Would you like me to continue?

 

Now, when there are two paychecks in a household a family unit might develop an erroneously inflated sense of economic worth.  Suddenly the family finds that they are paying outrageous prices for small, often unnecessary things.  The traffic suddenly decides to bare surrealist prices for flotsam and jetsum: whether it’s a ten-buck cup of coffee or a one bedroom apartment facing an alleyway in Manhattan for $4,000,000.  The family begins to believe they are entitled to things that no longer have the value they had in their parents’ generation. No one is going to sell you an overpriced house or apartment to you if you are unwilling to buy it.  It’s quite simple really.  It simply requires a collective American and realistic philosophy regarding what something is actually worth and why.

Where once, one could achieve a decent education for a moderate price at a State University or for free at a City University, now everyone is vying for an overpriced  Ivy League education in order to major in Zimbabwean philosophy or basket weaving, then wonder why they can’t find employment when they graduate.


Whose fault is this?

Perhaps one should look around, while occupying Wall Street, to see who really might be occupying their jobs if they can’t find they can’t land one  in their chosen field.

I realize I’ve been absent from the United States for quite some time, but I remember that all of my professional service providers, whether they be lawyers, doctors, teachers, engineers, journalists, editors or bank employees were all college graduates.  People with college degrees (usually some kind of liberal arts endeavor) who worked for retail establishments were all occupying temporary gigs until they could figure out what profession they would pursue.  I’m assuming they were all American people.  Of course I never checked their birth certificates…so who knows.

Perhaps I’ve just been gone too long.  I have no idea what my American brethren are talking about anymore.

**Perhaps I should just find a venue where they’re trending, to grow my knowledge of things going viral so that I can offer more transparency to my dissed homies!

**(See my blogspot: Ugly Words and “jacked up” concepts.

ROOTS WITH A “TWIST”!

“I am more African than, you!”

(Athol Fugard, author)

Stuck on geography ... actress Charlize Theron.(Charlize Thiron, actress)

nadine-gordimer

(Nadine Gorimer, author)

Jonathan Zapiro

(Jonathan Zapiro, political cartoonist)

This challenge has been hurled at me far too many times for me to count.  Actually the first time was in New York, when my French Moroccan dentist stated, “I am an American Citizen…I suppose that makes me “African American.  What do you call yourself? ”

Ah…hem….

When I moved to France, things started really getting bizarre….

Over the twelve years  I have been living in Europe, I have come to realize I have some kind of strange Karma.  The kind of karma that seems to propel Africans in my direction in social situations…The Caucasian kind!!!!

No kidding.

“I was born in Zimbabwe,” a blonde-haired, blue-eyed acquaintance states, “My husband is American.  I am more African than you!”

“I was born in Cape Town” says a fellow guest at an Obama campaigne event, “I have been an American citizen for 10 years.  I am an African American…you are not!

“I was born in Namibia… I am an American citizen!  I am more….”

I think you get the picture.

The Caucasian African American citizens I have met…and lately they have been numerous, let me tell you… seem to all be extremely possessive with the term “African American”.

Actually, I don’t blame them.

I’ve never been South of Luxor, Egypt, myself.  My family…both the European and the African…arrived in American before the Revolution and my Native American ancestors…well…you know….

What these Africans are not aware of, though, is that I personally never referred to myself as an “African American.”  Once we left “Negro” I stuck with the adjective “Black”.  Black American seemed more precise… from an American viewpoint, anyway.

I always thought the terminologies “Afro-“ and “African American” were simply trick bags. Some kind of underground movement designed to confuse and contort American perceptions of something.

Caucasian African American citizens are welcome to the term “African American” as far as I am concerned.  The ones I have met have families who have been in Africa as long as mine have been in America.

Besides, if both their parents were born in Africa, they would be more African than President Barack Obama.