He Sure Speaks Well

Yeah, but you don't.

Yeah, and what’s your excuse?

The Blackground

It was the mid 80’s and I was in my early 20’s. The historical details of the story I am to bestow upon you are irrelevant, but suffice it to say that I was a very young man in a significant corporate position. I was also the token Negro or, to use a more vivid and memorable metaphor, the fly in the milk.

I was the token Negro because I “spoke so well.” Between my youth and my honey-brown freckled face I was there to be exploited. Not just by the powers that were, but by myself as well given the ignorance that burdens all youth. I’ll leave that, at that.

The aforementioned position was high profile. Sort of a corporate ambassadorship in a Fortune 50 company. As such, I often communicated and held negotiations with people that I would not meet initially until said negotiations reached a certain apex. There was one case in particular where my liaison and I had been involved in a number of telephonic conversations over several weeks and through those conversations had become somewhat friendly.

That was “somewhat.”

The arduous negotiating finally bore fruit and it was time to consummate the business relationship. Given the scope of what that relationship entailed, I would need to fly into Virginia (where my liaison was located) to finalize matters. His name, seriously, was “Chuck.”

Chuck Roast or A Beef With Chuck?

My secretary (yes, I know they are “administrative assistants” now) was a very attractive and diminutive European-Amerikan lady named “Dorothy.” During that time there existed what were called secretarial pools—which were a designated number of secretaries each assigned to a certain executive—physically located in a contained area. Dorothy was old enough to be my mother and had dancing blue eyes, almost impish in the mischief they conveyed. They actually twinkled.

Dorothy had a son my age and she took damned good care of me. From flight reservations to knowing what veeps I despised (and didn’t want their calls) to where I preferred the proverbial “Three Martini Lunch.” Dorothy knew me like a book. She was also rather motherly and would hand me my ass if I zigged where I should have zagged pertinent to policy, politics or anything else. There were lots of anything else’s.

I digress.

Flight reservations were made and a couple of nights before my arrival into Dulles International Airport I contacted Chuck. I gave him my itinerary and our meaningless conversation meandered into the mundane. After all, the hard part was over…at least for me.

At some point Chuck asked “so what are you doing this evening (it was about 1700 hours PST/2000 hours EST)?” I responded with something like “Oh, just getting ready for the long trip, what are you doing?” Chuck responded “I’m sitting out here on my front porch having a beer watching this goddamned spook over yonder pick in his toes. Gawd I wish this neighborhood had never let them in here.”

I said nothing.

Chuck chuckled, likely perplexed at my sudden silence but too aloof, securely ignorant and racist to even conceive it’s origin then said “Well now, you know damned well you are not going to take a rental to our facility. I will pick you up and we will arrange transportation for you. I can’t wait to finally meet you. What are you going to be wearing so I’ll know you ‘cause I’ll be at the gate. And since you’re getting in late we can have dinner.”

I told Chuck “I’ll be wearing an impeccably tailored dark blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, red-tie (red, white and blue). You’ll know me when you see me because I’m rather tall and will have my company badge on. I look forward to it and will have the necessary documents in order.”

I didn’t tell that M.F. (aka Chucklin’ Chuck) I was, and intend to remain, Black.

Notes On The State Of Virginia

When I arrived at the airport, I was one of the first to deplane. As I exited the jetway, I took a seat as the crowd thinned and as soon as I sat down I heard a man asking for me by name. There were several business types in the throng of humanity and, with great fascination, I watched the man (whom I knew was Chuck) ask at least a dozen European-Amerikan men if they were me.

Finally, I stood up, all six feet and three inches of me, walked over to him and said “I’m your guy.” Just…like…that. He stared not at me but at my badge and though not given to hallucinations, I could have sworn I saw that man physically shrink in front of me. Like a wicked witch in an acid bath.

He was unable to make dinner due to a sudden family emergency, that evening. The following morning a courier arrived at my hotel suite. The documents had been fully executed and I took the next flight back to LAX. The business at hand turned out to be a mutually beneficial endeavor for all involved parties.

I never heard from Chuck again, which is as it should have been.

The Nexus Of Insult Disguised As Compliment: Same Shit, Different Smell

Yesterday “US” President Donald “Smitty” Trump, who is amongst the most illiterate, ill-spoken, unerudite presidents in history “complimented” President of Liberia Joseph Boakai on Boakai’s “beautiful” English. Interrogating the Liberian president: “It’s such good English…that’s beautiful, where did you learn to speak so beautifully? Were you educated? Where? Oh Liberia, well that’s very interesting.”

It most certainly is.

Lamentably, English has been the official language of Liberia since the country’s founding in the 1800s, but that is part and parcel to the overall genocide of my Alkebulanian ancestors and descendants. When language is murdered the tongue is, literally, cut out. If the tongue is assassinated, thought is castrated. Language is the invisible weapon, it is the most potent weapon and I’ll take a dictionary over a gun any day. Preferably, I shall be in possession of both given I’ve but a mighty cross to bear; because I know the crux of the science.

LookingNWords

Telling me I “speak well” is an insult. It is not only the polar opposite of a white supremacist driven paternalistic compliment in insulting drag, it officializes the utterer as a nitwit. Telling me, as a child, I am “exceptional” or “gifted” insults not only me but the rest of humanity as well. This is the heaviest game played which is why you systematize, and institutionalize, those like me not being able to play it in the aggregate. The fact that it is a foreign language to us and, thereby, puts us at a distinct disadvantage isn’t insurance enough.

The linguistic mocking of Black People in the United States is a thing no other group experiences anywhere in the world. No more than they were forced to come to it’s shores, forced to work in an alien land for free and deemed property. From stereotyped linguistic double-negatives, to “Boss,” to “Bro,” to “baby momma” and, the most ubiquitous and profitable of all, “Nigger” it is an unparalleled, relentless assault. What could possibly be better than bombing people unaware they have been bombed? What could possibly be better than assigning a mocking manner of speaking unto the people being mocked so that their physical attributes are equated and aligned with ignorance?

When language is controlled, thought is controlled. When thought is controlled, actions are controlled. When these three things are controlled, everything is controlled.

I may be slow, but I’m quicker than you.

During the same period of my reminiscence with Chuck, my dad (whom loved machines and gadgets) had an answering machine. Most of those reading this column will remember them. Essentially they were electro-mechanical boat anchors that were placed close to your ultra modern DTMF/push button phone, and if you had one or either you were on the cutting edge of technology. The concept of electronic voice mail would have been close to technological heresy. The wry smile that briefly adorns my face is that of limited technological nostalgia. Only.

When my dad got got the machine (I think it was a Memorex), he asked me to record the announcement. His reasons could have appeared to be the same as the Fortune 50 organization’s that led me to Chuck. But they, very much, were not. Such exquisite irony.

I recorded the standard announcement: Hello, you’ve reached Joe. I am not available at the moment, but if you’d be kind enough to leave a brief message, I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thanks for calling have a great day.

My dad had many things I never have had, and vice-versa. This was a manifestation of too many things to excavate for my purpose here. That notwithstanding, the thing I remember most is that he had good friends.

We are, and were, different that way.

My dad had one friend that was kind of indescribable in terms of their relationship. I can only characterize it as being closer than hereditary brothers. Subsequent to my recording the announcement on Pop’s answering machine, the aforementioned friend said “Joe, who is that white boy you got on that thing.” My dad reveled in that for years and I’m leaving it alone.

We, as Black People in the United States live with some very weird dynamics and instead of that being respected we are ridiculed for being ridiculed for five centuries. When Obama was president, and a candidate for it, European-Amerikans couldn’t stop saying, on both sides of the Isle (as in The Island), “well now, he sure speaks well.” Whilst most making both the observation and prosecuting the indictment are functionally illiterate, just like President Smitty. And few can fuck up the English language worse than those to which it is native.

Oh, dear.

Does anybody on this particular planet, in this particular galaxy, get this? Especially Black People in the United States; do you understand what has been done and is being done to you by language alone? Or shall I expect ICE at my door any moment because I am a goddamned alien?