ON PRIVILEGE
First, An Introduction
Welcome. It’s the first word that comes to mind for introducing myself and is admittedly odd, as I am new here. But what you’ll find after a few readings of me (the writer or the document) is that I venture places people don’t like to go and nothing breaks the ice of new surroundings like “welcome.” So then welcome to ThotBocks, full of meandering dispatches from my obsidian dome (or is it Onyx Cranium) and ringed with the truth as I see it. And despite the haze, I expect you’ll be rewarded for your time (though it serves my interest to forewarn you of the immense license I’ll take with it.)
Now, since you’ve apparently accepted my invitation, it’s my privilege to do with you as I please. I’m the antagonistic sort—the kind that calls spades “spades”. As the world no longer seems concerned with grace or measure, blunt observation is the new tact and often the only way to get eye contact, the foremost casualty of the Information Age. For instance, I disavowed some time ago use of the delusional “nigga” when spelling, speaking, or listening. Phonetics be damned. For all their wealth, I can’t read a slave narrative to save my life. Eye dialect don’t fly on a job application; it don't fly in my vernacular or my scripture. Nigger, please.
And for those on the post-Afrocentric what-was-yours-is-now-mine tip, the Amistad sailed back to
Freetown
a long time ago. It’d be one thing if Kasanga was standing on the coast of the
East Atlantic
and saw the masthead on the horizon, knotted his brow, and called back to Bidyola: “Hey Nigga, look at this shit here. White folks!” Nice as it is to repossess some part of a long-lost heritage, re-discovered etymology that both emboldened and enriched our lives as new millennium Negroes, fact remains that Williams, Watkins, and Willis, putting shit-stained boot to jet black ass and branded “nigger” into the consciousness first. No amount of reclamation will extract the stink from the crevices of that mark. “Nigger” is “nigga” is nigger. Dig it?
That kind of distinction speaks to what put me on this page in the first place: dominion. Momma said time and again, it’s not what you got but what you do with it. Well, if you got a domain and are letting others dictate its terms and borders, then you don’t have dominion. Kinda like the hording of “nigga” by Black folk the last fifty years or so—I think Kramer cleared that shit up real quick right there, huh? And if he didn’t, dial up the nearest wigger or party girl and see if s/he doesn’t set you straight. From all the teeth-sucking, I suspect you anticipated a less bitter and more diplomatic approach from Onyx Cranium’s inaugural male contributor. Though I may disappoint, I am not sorry. I myself was expecting to be rich by now rather than plagued by the credit man’s 3AM calls and the hostage situation that is my impounded car. We all boo-hoo. Some of us read The Root.
The rest of us come here.
Moving On…
And near as I can tell, this “here” isn’t quite new to the “depression” and “terror” and “frustration” I’ve been reading about all over white people news. So distraught and off-kilter, they keep asking where “here” has gone to? How did we get here? And how soon can we get from here? Give it a day or two and “life on Mars” will be at the forefront again because for all the chaos and upheaval today, love don’t live here anymore.
(Of course, by my reckoning, it never took residence, at least not for all of us—comfort and civility only available to a privileged few.)
Makes me think back to March of this year. The junior senator from
Illinois
spoke on bitterness, angst, and how all that emotion translates to hostility and aggression. I came around on the Black Ahnold* with that speech. Felt the brother opened the casement above the washboard and let the funk out the kitchen. I also thought he should’ve opened the kitchen door and stepped outside. Let that motherfucker burn. But that’s why I’m blogging and he’s running for his life (aka the presidency). But in pursuit of his goal, he’s dropped some science about neo-Americanism and how Black Today can fulfill the promise of Black Back Then, while differentiating itself just enough from Blackness, black Power, and Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Skin But If You Tell Anybody I’ll Drag You Behind My Truck ‘Til Ya Wheels, Face, and Feet Fall Off. (You know, the Blackness of 1998, which followed the Blackness of 1995 which was vestige of Blackness one hundred years hence.) But like Black Ahnold, I don’t want to talk about what makes us. I want to talk about what binds us.
Whereas the O2 movement leads the unity front, I’m more concerned about another kind of “together”; the loops of a knot tied together “together.” Those stubborn, lingering traits of the true American, the one that nigh 400 years ago chose the wrong “f”-word in the fight-or-flight debate and can’t live down what it means to the collective psyche of every American leader since. (Credit/blame is due to that cowardly choice for inspiring the near constant conflict that embroiled us since, presumably as means to prove We the People actually had it in ourselves to do so from the jump.) But all those niggardly feelings must manifest in some way. I believe they do in the bereavement we express at the sight of our hallowed traditions being torn asunder by modernity. Because across the board, those “set free” on American soil from the bowels of ships, the shackles of hegemony, or even the wombs of whores know what makes this country great and it’s simple: DOMINION. Nobody really cares about liberty. Or freedom. It’s never about what you can do but what you can’t. To set those boundaries is key in this society and dominion is the license that grants such power.
So why bring this up now? With the Mocha Messiah battling so closely for the Chosen Seat in less than four weeks? Precisely because this brother is battling a force larger than racism, classism, and patriotism combined. Intertwined with dominion, what separates it from mere ownership or supervision is Privilege. The Great Entitlement. The Demographic Changer. Privilege is what makes a niggard. The type of dude who won’t let it go, all resentful and pent-up. Like a slave. Simplistic, sure. Accurate, sure enough. We, all of us, hold inside a privilege not extended to others because we need our dominion. We gotta hold onto something that becomes uniquely ours, something we can hoard because ain’t no one else got it. And should an attempt be made to take this one-of-a-kind fire, if the larger world around us tries to appropriate it, we regress. Lose our diction, drop a consonant and call out to our offender, the one taking what’s ours. You know, nigger, please.
We all got it. We all got it because we all want it. Our dominion. Our own space for our own privilege. Our inner nigger lives there and forgives no trespass or trespassers. Some of us disguise it, assimilating in masquerade, extolling virtues of sameness and conformity in order to achieve dominion and then cut loose. Others split it in two, switch its codes when the occasion calls for it. You know - speak one way to one somebody and another way to one somebody else; such verbal insulation helping to keep dominion over where we came from while keeping others from knowing where we’re going. Some of us, still, refuse to claim it or even acknowledge its existence. We figure it was put there so long ago by forces beyond our control that we’d rather fight with it. Drug it, flog it, plead with it, and placate it. Spend all our time stumbling and ranting under its heavy weight, occasionally getting our rocks off by giving in and burning one down, only to pick up the pieces to make sure we still got the burden to carry around. Niggerdom, in all its shades, is rich with contrast but all its varieties are the same in their privilege: no one can tell you what to do with it.
Hence the last of us: those of us that wear our inner nigger on our sleeves, out in the great wide open. Those who can claim that privilege give designation to it, names like “historical”, “independence”, “sacred”, “republic”, “promise.” Number it up or down, one through forty-four, or wherever it will end. It is in this privilege that the rest of our inner niggers make their space, find their crux. So far, that dominion has been forgiving, albeit reluctantly, of being opened and exposed. New designations have been assigned: “bilingual”, “diversity”, and “opportunity.” But you can only push that privilege so far.
In the end, those that lay claim to it will draw a line around their most privileged spots. And despite your acumen and regardless of how adroitly you handle yourself, you’ll get no further than your angry inner nigger has been allowed to go. And that’s a shame—particularly when they taunt you shamelessly, giving the sillier facets of their privilege names like “maverick”, “folksy”, and “one of us”, which of course, you and your inner nigger will never be.
“Depression”. “Terror”. “Frustration”. Names for things those of us on the outside have known by other monikers and will know by newer names still. The only way to muddle through is to not muddle at all. Be clear and call all that shit out: spades are spades. When your inner nigger don’t want to share: you’re bitter. When your inner nigger has to fight to take some: you’re lucky. And if your inner nigger should find itself in new surroundings, laying claim to new dominion, with executive privilege, well, there’s really only one thing to say:
[*Unless you lived through the California Gubernatorial Recall of 2003, you can’t truly grasp the absurdity of a CHANGE candidate and his/her reform platform. Somehow it seemed (twice, I might add) reasonable to some 22 million people that the befouled politics of the state which led to budget overruns, massive shortfalls, and rampant corporate chicanery (leading inevitably to a depressed economy) could only be solved by an outsider with an indomitable will, charming smile, and knack for détente. Felt then (like now) as if a judge had decreed the resolution to a malpractice suit was to replace a surgeon with a plumber—now implementing the auger in lieu of a scalpel. That’s change for your ass. So we gave the Austrian Actor an exclusive—nay, double-engagement as “Governor” and I can’t help but feel a bit numb to messianic calls to rally behind change and reform to cure what ails me. I’d just like a professional.]
