Black

The Day The Parties Stopped

Lord, let us party tonight; cuz tomorrow they might kill us all…

The locals show out every Sunday. The floor is sticky and slippery, giving slightly as the wanton movements of the bodies above twist and grind. We drink, we dance, we fight, and we leave…

The sun shone unobstructed, fooling those peering out their windows, hopeful the late February day may promise warmer temperatures and a sign of an early spring. The second semester was in full swing, removed from the early January renewal that saw students reunite with one another after the winter break. Those early days saw a swollen campus filled with parents dropping their children off, only slightly less emotional than their initial goodbyes the previous August. The nervous energy amongst the underclassmen was replaced by a knowing familiarity and comfort in navigating what was once a frightening new chapter. Seniors drove their cars throughout the campus slowly, music blaring, with their immediate future rapidly approaching their purview. In their windshields was the blinding light from the sun, promising a gorgeous spring in Greensboro. Today, however, the campus was light, waiting for the evening when students would return from the weekend.

Sundays are usually a return to normalcy. The school, noticeably empty from the admittedly homesick over the weekend, would see attendees return to their dorms, some with a crisp set of bills in their pocket, and most with a clean bag of laundry slung across their shoulders. Their makeshift homes seemed fresher in their absence, welcoming their renewed spirits. Sunday nights were usually a return to action. And Club Menage.

High Point Road housed any variety of late-night pleasures for the broke and pseudo rich alike. Strip clubs and tattoo parlors line the streets on the drive from the campus toward the mall, with nightclubs nestled on every few corners along the way. Menage sat behind a Wendy’s and was typically deserted during the day. Friday and Saturday nights there were pretty calm; most people found their way downtown, lines stretching down Greene Street with patrons mingling with the vendors selling hot dogs and bootleg hats. However, Sunday night belonged to Menage. While the weekend traffic was segregated between college students and actual Greensborians downtown, Menage was a hodgepodge of both. Florida Street and Pride Hall joked in the entry lines; cars from Randleman Road and Haley Hall fought for space across the street in the Total Wine parking lot; the McDonald’s saw traffic from North Eugene and the Aggie Village. Sundays at Menage were for the city, a collective effort to ignore the demands of the upcoming work week.

Menage is largely like any other nightclub; however, regulars came because of the slight nuances that separated it from their counterparts. Sure, there was a dancefloor and a stage, as there were for most other clubs in the city. Here, the bartenders overpour on specific drinks; their reasoning seemingly indiscriminate. It felt more of a practice of in-the-know patrons to learn which drinks were on this intimate menu, and which servers let the liquor pour freely into the clear plastic cups. There was a grill on a patio near a Dumpster that served the hungry with burgers, hot dogs, chicken wings, and fish plates that was just beyond a door that most assumed was a hallway leading to some unremarkable back area of the building. The place is a secretive society within a club that welcomed everyone, and the slight pleasures of being familiarized with its unique atmosphere made it irresistible.

Scattered Black bodies occupied the dancefloor, mostly reserved and mingling. The ground wasn’t yet littered with those overfilled plastic cups and worn wristbands. The stage had remnants of a local rap group that dragged a drummer along to comport themselves as a live band. A mic stand and a single cymbal occupied a corner, their owners unconcerned about the waves of men and women dancing tonight, their clutter gathered around high heels and Nikes. A prepopulated playlist thumped through the speakers; the resident DJ never showed up before 10:30. A man in an outdated Gino Green hoodie and jeans leaned on his stool, no doubt at the mercy of the drinks taken in that Total Wine parking lot, his eyes focused solely on the leggings and fitted pants of the women strolling by.

Tonight – February 26 – began as a release, but ended in a combination of commiseration and unified angst.

At about ten that night, the news trickled in slowly and without context. A Black kid. Skittles. A hoodie. On campus, PlayStations were paused, and the music didn’t intermingle with the raucousness in the dorm room halls as much. A group of residents gathered in the second-floor common area of Pride Hall, with one girl giving periodic updates from her phone. Another woman, in Barbee Hall, muted the TV, garnering puzzled looks from her roommate and her girlfriend. The campus stood still, seemingly taking a collective breath to process. Maybe the cars with the loud stereo systems drove past, but their vibrating trunks caught the ear of almost no one tonight. And maybe a few individuals continued to dress for Sunday night at Club Menage, but they were greeted by an unwilling desire from their peers to move from the spots they occupied in those halls and common areas.

Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old Miami native visiting his father and his fiancée in Sanford, Florida, had been shot and killed by a neighborhood watch coordinator. The facts, as reported, were that Martin was walking home from a convenience store, candy and drink in hand, when George Zimmerman, a resident of the Twin Lakes housing community, seemingly appointed himself arbiter of all things threatening. What ensued was a confrontation that left Martin dead, and audio of a phone call between Zimmerman and the local authorities in which Zimmerman was explicitly asked to not follow the teen. While the days and months following the murder proved to be devastating, both with Zimmerman being found innocent of second-degree murder and his subsequent boorish and repulsive smugness toward a community still in mourning, tonight – February 26 – felt overwhelmingly hopeless.

Still, We danced into those bright strobe lights, phones buzzing nonstop. We ordered drinks, innately knowing the week would punish Us for simply existing, even apart from another damning example of “white authority” to which We were not yet privy. We listened for songs that We knew would fill the room with exuberance, women stepping gingerly toward the seductive glow; men hurried bottom-shelf liquor into their bodies before doing the same. We bumped into someone We didn’t like, staring intently into Their eyes, resigned to whatever violence may result. We sat on the steps, twisting weed up, looking around for Our folks, phones still buzzing. We just hoped We could make it home with some of that light.

Black pain can be both fatalistic and crushing, while being understood to be pain not of Our own doing, but of the circumstances that have arrived to collect whatever some determining body deemed more valuable than Ours chooses to amass. That body is constructed to spread the inherently flawed and historical ideal of Black bodies being lesser, and therefore disposable. They serve to excuse, rationalize, and – grossly – justify the inhumane. What is even more incriminatory about this wicked, never ending, and inescapable pain is that it is simply a burden We have been conditioned to work around. It is as if the hope for lessening that pain is silly; that the focus should be on cohabitation with, and not elimination of, this pain. Merely treating the symptoms of this pain – laughing in spite of, numbing Ourselves because of, and struggling to prevail in the face of – is the concession offered to us. The causes of this pain are permanent, unchanging despite the best efforts of those afflicted, because the creators of this pain are strident in their efforts to maintain their normalcy. That is why Our laughs are heavy and hearty; the weight of this construction tinges even Our most carefree and effervescent moments.

But still, We danced. We finally learned that the world had let Us down yet again. We gathered around, arms on shoulders, and communed. We were reminded that the world outside these doors were unkind; maybe even more so to these older, lighthearted versions of Us. We knew that, and carried on as We were, because in that moment, We had to. This was but another derivative plotline of a sequel retread so frequently, We no longer had the energy to protest its opening night. We danced because We were defeated. Again. We were lost out there, but here – HERE – We were isolated only in danger We could tangibly see and feel and touch. And tonight, February 26, We were above inconsequential conflict. We danced together because once those bright fluorescent lights turned on and We were forced to trot back to Our waiting realities, We were no longer unguarded from them.

At the fountain near the Aggie Village, a young man from Pine Hills, Florida – a 40-minute drive from where a 17-year-old Black child was murdered for having the audacity to exist – sat for hours in pure resignation. There were no tears, and his eyes focused on the spurting water shooting up from the middle of the fountain. In those long solemn moments, and in the midst of a crowd that had gathered around him, he couldn’t help but feel that the water that continuously went recycled through the fountain system and lightly dusted his already frigid arms was analogous to exactly what We were all destined to be. To which all of Us were relegated to, eventually. That no matter how dogged the attempt to escape this cycle, We were simply forced to be subjected to the same result over and over.

Monday passed with expected glumness. The nervous energy of the younger students returned, along with an uncertainty they could not fully explain. The seniors still drove through, their radios more muted and reserved. Classes were melancholy, filled with the silences Sunday’s events filled awkwardly. Conversations were brief, as if a barrier of despair lingered in the air, blocking the words that followed the handshakes and semi-hugs in front of the cafeteria.

Trauma is indirect at times, aiming its arrow of hurt upward, eventually descending into a crowd of people otherwise ignoring its ambush as best they can. We were dancing, laughing, and enjoying the small microcosm that has been afforded Us because of their unwillingness to share their freedoms on any significant scale. To be Black is to be reminded repeatedly of the frivolity of Our humanity. To be constantly forced to accept the reality of why so many Black bodies were no longer able to share in the momentary successes and brief flings of joy granted to Us. Reality had creeped into Our shrouded and private dance, and demanded to buy Us a strong drink while whispering a low but firm reminder of a power that lies so very far beyond Our reach. And yet, the drink spilled into Our stomachs cleanly as We swallowed, clenching Our jaws at this condescending gesture in anticipation of what may come later…

Awareness can be convenient in its arrival and distasteful in its digestion. Trayvon Martin was not Me in fact, but he was Me in essence. Trayvon Martin was Him in the front of class, jotting notes furiously in an attempt to understand Advanced Statistics. Trayvon was Her, walking in front of Smith Hall scrolling through her iPod Touch. He could very well be a Nigga many of Us cannot stand, right up until Their life is tried by those that are eagerly intent of destroying. Mundane territorial matters of self against others that look like Us, for right now, anyway, just seem…less important than they did before Sunday, February 26. What mattered then to so many of Us was that We danced and lived. And what mattered so much more as We learned the evil that We battled so fiercely to escape was inescapable, was that We – jointly and perpetually – did not let that be the day the parties stopped.

We grieve different; A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

rage TO BE BLACK

“The banality of violence can never excuse America, because America makes no claim to the banal.”

-Ta-Nehisi Coates

To navigate Black life in America is to understand hypocrisy. It is also to understand selective dissonance. It is to understand how innocuous action is typically ignored by all, and forceful appeals for humanity become admonished by many. It is to feel bewildered that such a simple request from the disenfranchised is met with a willing obtuseness, and, at most, a shrug and the promise of “needed discourse”. Such a blatant disregard for Blackness- a Blackness that is emulated only slightly less often than it is dehumanized- can only lead to anger. And to understand this anger is to truly understand America.

The embers always burn- too casually, even- in the back of Our minds, the omnipresent sense of hopelessness wrestling Our well-being into submission. We try Our best to ignore its’ persistent appearance into the forefront of Our consciousness like an emergent migraine at each disheartening article, video, or newsclip. The injustice befalls onto hearts cursed to break again and eyes long thought to be desensitized. Some seek solace in the forced insanity that is expecting justice, while others recognize- either innately or through years of witnessing those operating in bad faith- that there will be none. Both are tethered- the former to hope, the latter to grim realism- to an existence that is uniquely tragic and deeply depressing. Only then does that pain begin to arise, not because it was never present, but because We, yet again, are subject to the whims of those tasked with ensuring this pain is recurring.

The construction is taxing; it is the result of an assemblage of ideals built to revel in our collective disdain at their practiced song-and-dance. The construction has long become the device of those maliciously devouring our sense of safety, equality, and self-esteem while malnourishing Us with trite platitudes. The construction publicly acknowledges fault in words that remove any wrongdoing on their behalf- the way things currently stand cannot possibly be of their doing- while privately crossing their collective fingers in hopes that change will not disrupt their well-being. They will stand, not because of an intrinsic belief in all that is just, but because placation is the most direct route back to THEIR normalcy.

The construction is sanctimonious and pompous and misleading. The construction devalues the merits of Our righteous fury and instead champions the meekest and most docile among Us. The construction has long deemed protest to be noble and heroic and liberating and violent and contentious for some, while all other objection is painted in the unflattering undertones of savagery and unruliness. The construction values comfort. Please pardon, for I misspoke: the construction values their comfort, and acquiescence to this comfort is not only preferred, it is enforced. Beyond that, it is deputized. It is taught. It is highlighted and promoted as the most honorable value Our leaders possess, whether cherrypicked conveniently from Martin’s words, or delivered as a plea of compliance from our pulpits.

This is why We must never ignore those embers. They do not merely reside in Our psyches; they gnaw away at them. To be Us is to be constantly assaulted in ways that are both unique and unrelenting. Because the construction fears that WE are unique and unrelenting. To be Us is to understand the problem is inherently theirs. That the idea of Us and them is simply to explain injustice in a way that exonerates the culprits. To be Us is to understand this notion and to wholly reject it. To be Us is to understand Our exposure and nakedness to a world that expertly illuminates the trivial reconciliations of the past while never acknowledging the remaining darkness surrounding it.

Those flickering embers must never fade, for it is when the anger transforms into resignation that we are truly doomed. A quiet resignation then becomes a submission that accepts the tiniest pacifications. This is when the journey is recounted and the appreciation lies in the destination that is now amongst Us, and not beyond. This is when false equivalencies are made and hidden self-prejudices are revealed. This is when We somehow become responsible for a construct We neither created, nor willingly participated in. This is when the belief that transcending this construct is not only possible, but attainable by all with the gumption to do so. This anger must always continue to be present, unbridled in spirit while measured in pragmatism and action.

My plea is not for them in the same way my patience for their stagnation is no longer present. They are deserving of neither. There is no use appealing to some general decency that has been proven many times over to merely reside in theory. The construction is cold and overbearing, an efficiently operating system that is unaffected by nuance, sound reason, or civility. But as more ears become sympathetic to opposition of this construction, it is imperative that the sounds they hear are of loud defiance and resolute demands that will not be swayed by immoral negotiation, inducement, or hollow promises. My plea is for Us to continue to apply pressure to a construction that, for the first time in a long while, has been taken aback and appears staggered in their amoral resolutions.

I say all of this to not deride whatever earned celebrations, pleasures, and exuberance this country begrudgingly affords Us; I simply imply that joy is of Our own construction, and that the embers of Our rage should remain ablaze and directed towards those that seek to extinguish our collective desire for a land We dare challenge to be better. Anger- very much like trouble- can be good for Us. It is necessary for Us. We are not docile, nor are We scared to strip leadership to remove every inkling of Our silent acquiescence. This is America, right? And to be American SHOULD BE to vehemently deny injustice; for too long this notion has not been accepted as an all-encompassing right. To be in America is to also understand that the story of this country is rooted in violence and civil disobedience, which is to say…

Kindly fuck yourself if you don’t know, don’t show, or don’t care what the hell is going on.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Peace, Disturbed.

“I got one hand on this bottle, one foot on the gas/I’m searching for trouble, I’m going too fast/I’m running from shadows, I’m hoping to crash/Just to wake me up from the pain and the past…”

“I’m gonna have to ask both of you to leave.”

Is the last fight supposed to be the most passionate? She kissed me enthusiastically, either completely too intoxicated or too involved to notice the vertical cut that ran up the left side of my bottom lip. A cut caused by my attempted levity, underlying issues we both refused to address, or our addiction to one another. Who fucking knows at this point? She let her lips linger with either lustful anger or a remorseful finality; I, in my drunkenness, had no desire or capacity to explore either.

“I was making Japanese and she’s watching DVDs/In Oakland, in Oakland/Now I’m driving up the 5, and she waits till I arrive/In Oakland, in Oakland…”

“I did right by her, right? Doesn’t seem that way. If I did, she would be here, right? She would respond to my texts, right? She would fuckin’ save me…”

Fuck it; maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair. And she knows. I leaned on her for so long, it left a scent she needed to shake off, knowing it was no fault of her own. Her smile is different around people that she doesn’t have to heal, which is something I honestly can’t handle anymore. She used to collect the pieces of sanity that would routinely be tossed aside by my insecurity and anger and store them for when the night gave way to contrition. Now she grimaces as they leak from whatever semblance of normality I pretend to have. But how can I blame her?

“Buuuut…yo, yooo..yo. Hey?? Hey?!? Yo! When we’re good we’re good, though, is wha *hic* I’m trynnn..trynsay…”

I couldn’t even fix my eyes on her disappointed face long enough to convince her that I- yet again- would do better. That I do care. That I know I’ve done a terrible job of showing it up until this point. That there’s a lot on my mind. That there’s a lot going on around me: jobs, getting acclimated to them, family pressure, whatever. Of course, I’m the victim, and of course I’m incensed when that’s no longer enough for her to hold on to the dream that the person she thought she loved will ever be anything more than a manipulative, delusional piece of shit posing as a misunderstood esoteric drowning in his own self-pity.

Shit, I could’ve told her I was just as broken as her. But then why would she ever wrap her arm around my bicep and rub her thumb up and down my tattoos, in full lust over the idea that I can confidently pick up her shattered pieces?

Shit, I could’ve told her that I melt when I see her, too. But what leverage and dominion would I then have over her? How can we both maintain that nervous energy? Who wins then? Fluttering hearts blow away in the slightest breezes, and I’ve always been told it was my job to chase them, not to let my own drift away while my hands remained empty.

Doesn’t she see I’m working with this vision? I know the destination; I just don’t know the exact route, and here she is asking out of our journey. Fuck her. Fuck her so much. Fuck her…right? I understand this isn’t what she signed up for, nor is it what I wanted to expose her to. I needed her to believe in me. And to tolerate me, even if I don’t really understand why this would be something anybody would be willing to tolerate. ‘I’m me’ became the only validation I could muster, and the minute that no longer became acceptable currency in our relationship, I lost the only halfway tangible advantage I had. I promised it would’ve been worth the sacrifice…fuck her. That seemed right.

“I don’t wanna hear what I’ve done wrong/I’ll deal with my problems when I get home/I’m better off when I’m all alone/I know I said I’d stop, but I’m not that strong…”

I drove aimlessly down Route 5. I cruised, rightfully hurt. I sped, wrongfully pained. I swerved, increasingly intoxicated. I yelled, uncontrollably indignant. I swerved again, endlessly pondering. I exited, rapping tearfully out of tune. I lingered at stop signs to ponder over the recent past. I ran red lights in defiance of the immediate present. I stopped breathing at the sight of my actual world crashing down; the idea of the novella of a life I convinced myself would reset in the coming work week immediately halting.

There wasn’t a sobriety test; one wasn’t really needed. It was tragically comedic, really. There were no accusations and refutation thereof; just an immediately regretful and scared and broken and lost and compliant kid affected by his own misplaced anger and delusional machinations.

“Shiiit, I…I…did right by hur, right? Don’t sheeem da way. Iffi did, she’d be huh…right? She’d answer, right? Sh…sheeeee…she’d save me, sir.”

“Like a million, million, million people told me not to trust in you…”

Maybe I’m irredeemable. Broken to no real repair, I think. And she’s moved on, I guess. I leaned on her for so long, she got used to smiling demurely whenever someone asked where I was. I liked that. She got used to reflexively handing me her keys, opening the passenger seat door, and plopping down quietly, a small- yet telling- act of submission that empowered my toxicity. She’d grown so used to my glossy-eyed rants, she’d often sit on her patio silent, waiting for me to explain a world she pretended to not understand. One of us needs to be saved, the flickering embers of coherence in my brain thought.

The phone vibrated violently. After an awkward shuffle across a marble tabletop, it rested alongside a bowl of cantaloupe. It rang again, the buzzing becoming louder as it echoed off both the countertop and the bowl. The pulsations were loud enough that anyone in the kitchen would have easily heard them, if someone were actually present. She sat across the living room in a brown loveseat, her legs tucked underneath her sideways. The room itself was silent, save for the soft music that came out of the little pink wireless speaker he had bought her for Valentine’s Day. Jhene, Childish Gambino, K.R.I.T., Tink and others filled the background while she flipped slowly through the pages of a James Patterson novel. Every few minutes, she instinctively blew across the top of her black tea, even though it had long since cooled. This world was simple. It was without conflict or justifications. There were no promises to be made, nor was there available space to entertain them. A room over lay the frenzied summoning of neediness and dependence. A mere 35 feet stood between the stress she so longed to overcome, and a person that was no longer worthy of her effort.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Then peace.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

Peace again.

While this flailing attempt at distraction waged one room over, she still sat on that brown loveseat, engrossed by her book and eased by her environment.

*Zzzzzzz! Zzz-zzz!*

As she neared the end of her chapter, she looked toward the kitchen with a sudden realization. “Damn…I left my cantaloupe in there on the counter.”

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Maxwell’s Silver Hammer

“Joan was quizzical; studied pataphysical

Science in the home.

Late nights all alone with a test tube.

Oh, oh, oh, oh.

Maxwell Edison, majoring in medicine,

Calls her on the phone.

“Can I take you out to the pictures,

Joa, oa, oa, oan?”

But as she’s getting ready to go,

A knock comes on the door…”

Do you know the story of Victor? Did you empathize with his heartache? Could you fault him for delving into his experiments as an escape from his sorrow? Seriously…have you heard this story? The one about the young scientist chipping away at human limitation, one oversized limb at a time? Can you imagine yourself as the engineer of such a destructive force? Do you know the story of Victor and the creature that destroyed things that did not understand him? Do you know the story of the creature that came to be known as Frankenstein? Surely you know how this creature evokes fear and revulsion amongst the “civil” world? Do you know the story of Victor Frankenstein, the creator of a savage that has taken the brunt of the burden for his own indiscretion?

They’re hopeless, and want what you have. They want your opportunity, your privilege, your resources; hell, they’ll settle for your general right to exist. What they have is a set of very limited options and detrimental influences. They’re hopeless, and will TAKE what you have, right? If that were even possible. If they weren’t confined to the South Side of Chicago, tucked conveniently away and left to prey on each other, that is. The savages- by design- have their habitat, and you have yours.

Has history painted Victor in nearly the same light as his creation? Or has the iniquity fallen solely on a creature that struggled to come to terms with such a dismal reality? Why is there no outcry for the lack of opportunity by those with the ability to provide such? Why is one viewed as a sympathetic figure, while the other has been labeled a savage nuisance? Furthermore, why is their so-called “barbarity” met with a convenient obliviousness? Why is their existence condemned?

Accountability rarely falls onto those in position to create change. That responsibility somehow falls onto those trapped in an environment of someone else’s creation. Savages created and placed in less than ideal conditions…

Victor eventually came to understand the error in his judgment. His recklessness afforded him a place as the victim. Hindsight has deemed him the tragic genius. He was unfortunate enough to create something that should not have been and a system in place that he himself would object to. He is pitied, while the true victims are admonished. But pointing out that dichotomy is frowned upon…

The protests and discussions are all well and fine. Town halls to address Black on Black violence open a very important dialogue, but where do YOU go after you leave these conventions? Home, away from the turmoil that surrounds the very people you claim to “educate” and “help”. Weird how quickly hollow intelligence dissolves into an obtuse, sheltered, wiggity-wack bunch of fuckboys, huh?

Yet you come and tell them they’re all a bunch of insensible animals…

Trapped. Isolated. Far-removed. But THEY’RE the ones lacking self-awareness…

Do you remember when the savage murdered Frankenstein’s family? You don’t, because that literary device just may make you face your guilt. And who wants that when deflecting is simpler, right? Right??

You remember the monster. You remember the damage, disruption, and disorder. The unabashed anger and brazen savagery from this beast. But do you remember how he was created? South Side wasn’t made by Us; it was created.

A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Insomnia

“But I’m afraid of not being able to laugh anymore
What’s life going to become once we don’t have anymore
…Heroes?”

-Cee-Lo Green

I get tired. I sometimes drift off in front of my social media feed. My eyes tend to get sooooo heavy from pontificating with strangers. Commiserating with you is draining; I apologize if I distract myself with more pressing and immediate concerns. Your stupidity tires me out and I need a break. If you knew how dumb and shortsighted you are, then you’d need a snooze, too. Correcting you saps the little energy I have, but monitor our Black Lives with an otherworldly attentiveness, you little vanguard, you. You deserve my sincere apology for correcting whatever absurdities wafted out the midnight oil of condescension and misguided righteous gallivanting. I’ll just look past the fact you’re delving into a very dangerous and harmful logic. Yeah…naw. Good luck getting me to comport myself as someone willing to acquies…

“…Yo, Young Militant Facebook Jerk, I had this weird dream. I dreamt that my ex got back with me and gave me Chlamydia. Chlamydia, yeah. But here’s the weird thing; she got it from Katt Williams and he was chasing me around, apparently mad I took my girl back from him…

…Dozed off, sorry. #BlackLivesMatter made idiots of a few that garner reverence by impressing other idiots. The share button only helps if you can discern between validity and propaganda, champ. It kinda sucks because your intentions are (to you) noble. We get it; nothing else invades your immaculate consciousness…

“…But dig this part…everybody running with Katt in my dream were my friends in real life. So I had like five people chasing and shooting at me. My ex doubled back to ol’ boy and I was just running by myself until I finally got to my mother’s house…”

Shit. Fell asleep. I do wonder how YOU condemning ME for losing focus of an issue isn’t egregious in its own right. It seems totally counterproductive and unnecessary. Why are our “leaders” continuously slinking back into the pack to make sure all of us are fixated on the same thing? And why does your indignation only apply to others? Oh, to be so aware of everything except your own actions, Young Wack Hotep Brother. I have no problem pointing a finger directly in the face of this hypocrisy, because I have never claimed to be too involved to do otherwise.

“Yoooo…they all pulled out guns and I couldn’t run anymore because apparently Chlamydia makes you really slow. So I just stood there…I STOOD there, dude…they all had guns on me. Did I mention that before?? Well anyway, they all sat there ready to shoot when my ex popped up in the window and had one of those bullets Angelina Jolie had in Wanted…yeah, the ones that boomerang around the room…so, yeah, she shot in the window and hit all of them in the che…”

Those covers had me lazy. Carry on with your conquests, you valiant social media trooper. Disperse your wisdom by inundating us with questionable information on the basis the headlines alone appease to a certain sensibility we should all be required to share. Condemn us because we find time to laugh, joke, and relax. Forgive us if our outrage isn’t incessant while our awareness is meandering. Call me obtuse and take pity on me for not occupying the same post with you, scanning the horizon with aimless zeal. I suppose taking any regard of my own Black Life at times is selfish and unfocused. Forgive me.

“So they all sat there shaking on the floor and my ex crawled through the window and threw a small vial in my direction. She said, ‘sorry for giving you The Clap’, and walked out through the front door. It bothered me because I had Chlamydia; did she not know ‘The Clap’ refers to Gonorrhea? Because I can’t deal with somebody that’s not #Woke.

Look, the battles are ceaseless. The problem with our midnight crusaders isn’t that there is no recognition of the endless nature of our issues; it’s that my deviance is incorrectly identified as resignation. It’s that watching- and not subsequently analyzing- is equivalent to knowledge for you folk. I am not stepping away from this fight; I am simply regrouping in order to determine a more effective approach. Why barge into the middle of a sociopolitical issue while alienating those that share your desire for change? If fights were meant to be around-the-clock solo missions, there would be no need for a more rested set of eyes to ever defend our livelihoods, right?

“What you mean did I chase after her?? She gave me Chlamydia and- through her “research”- called it ‘The Clap’. Her ignorance is going to kill us both if I allow it…”

It is not because I do not care. Nor is it because I am unaware. My reticence is not hesitance. Consciousness is a weapon unto oneself under YOUR sanctimony; look both ways before you lob grenades. Sleep because you dare to dream, not because you believe your truth is the one and only. Understand your platitudes are simply blinders; they are not shades.

#YouCouldStayWokeButYouShouldProbablyTakeYoAssToSleepForALittleBit

A.J. Armstrong is smarter than you; he’s also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Blackface

I’ll get to Dear White People in a second, but in honor of Halloween, please peep what is quite possibly the greatest Twitter exchange EVER (read from the bottom up):

Okay, back to what I was saying.

Dear White People was supposed to be a brilliantly biting satire that held a mirror up to White America to let them know they could be kind of ugly at times. I really wanted to seek out the first white person in the theater, sit beside him, and cast knowing glances in their direction after each resonating scene. The movie was supposed to end with me standing directly in front of the screen at its conclusion and yelling ‘see?!? Do you get it now?’ with my arms crossed to everyone and no one at…the…same…damn…time. This was supposed to be a film that was ingenious in its creation and flawless in its presentation. Dear White People was supposed to be writer Justin Simien’s Tour de Force, and it is…in the previews. It’s not that Dear White People missed its mark; I’m just not sure what the hell they were even aiming at.

Without giving too much away, the story centers around a group of college students at a majority-white Ivy League school. The focus is on four in particular: Coco, a woman from the South Side of Chicago that eschews Black culture and has a myopic view on what it actually MEANS to be Black; Sam, a rebellious Mulatto woman entrenched in Pro-Black idealism; Troy, a well-to-do son of the school’s Dean of Students; and Lionel, who is just gay. Because gay is the new Black (insert blank stare emoji here). There are obviously white people as well, but we’ll get to them in a few.

Now that you know the characters, let’s look into their internal conflicts. Of course Sam has a white man on the side while dating a Black co-ed to maintain her ‘All Black Everything’ illusion. Of Course Troy has a white girlfriend. And OF COURSE Lionel and his struggle with being homosexual is the primary storyline. Because gay is the new Black and TOTALLY relevant when discussing race relations (insert blank stare emoji here). CoCo just doesn’t want to have anything to do with any of them because…Black. That’s all I gathered. Nobody ever explored what led to these feelings so…yeah. That’s all I got.

In what I thought was an excellent piece of character development by Mr. Simien, it becomes apparent that Sam, the Rebel and Troy, the Company Man, share an inherent understanding of Black culture while being at either extreme in regards to their personalities and interactions. Kudos for that. Even a trashcan gets a steak sometimes, apparently.

Maybe attending a Historically Black University sapped my understanding of on-campus race relations- I admit my base of knowledge is limited here- but each of these four characters has some romantic connection with someone outside of their race. I just wonder if this is realistic and question why every character needs to have this connection, either closeted or public. Addressing inter-race relations is all well and good, but why make it such a conflict with EVERY major character? But again, maybe that’s just me.

As I said before, the primary storyline is about Lionel and his struggle to find an identity and his place on campus. Lionel is gay and his sexual identity supersedes all of the other storylines that I thought the movie was SUPPOSED to be about. This post is neither the time nor the place to speak on why Gay Rights is important; the same is true about a film entitled Dear White People. Because white people can be gay; they can’t…do I really have to expl…man…moving on…

Now let’s get to those white people. I wanted ‘These White Folk Crazy’; instead I got ‘These Black Folk Really Want To Love These White Folks But We Have Trouble Loving Each Other’. Where were the figurative taps on their collective shoulders to remind them that some of the things they do need not be done? What are white moviegoers learning about their behavior? They damn sure learned about OUR behavior. Honestly, the only thing I imagine white people took away from Dear White People is ‘Dear White People…you might not want to wear Blackface on Halloween’. And that’s a shame.

I wanted so much more from Dear White People. I expected edge. I never got my ‘see, White People? See?!?’ moment. The writing suffers from tending to the wrong audience: Black people. It becomes apparent halfway through that Dear White People is for white people in title only. It’s much safer to point out Our collective identity crisis; God forbid tilting the conversation towards the white audience. We can’t risk having THEM in disillusionment and self-contemplation. This was supposed to be Our moment, solely because Our moment finally wouldn’t be about Us. Damn shame Justin and his team weren’t brave enough to fully follow through with it.

F–k ‘Dear White People’. I hope they make a re-boot like they did with ‘The Incredible Hulk’. Matter fact, I’ll do it. Let’s call it ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. A.J. Armstrong is the writer of ‘Dear White People: For Real This Time’. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

Ratchet (Pinky Finger Up)

“You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice…”

“Sweatpants, hair tied, chillin’ with no makeup on/That’s when you’re the prettiest, I hope that you don’t take it wrong…”

That’s cool and all, but forget all that right now. You see slim over there? The one with the streaks in her hair (my homeboy calls it that ‘Ghetto Blue Hue’) and the leggings? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and my Concords are sticking to the floor, but my eyes are glued to this girl across the room.

“I be eating nacho, cheese…GUAPO!”

Yeah, yeah…awesome song or whatever, but who is THAT over there? The one that ordered the House Cured Salmon Gravlax? That’s my focus right now. It’s crowded and I can see couples strolling the harbor in the large windows behind her. Trust me, I’m still focused on the girl inside of these glass windows.

“Africa must wake up, the sleeping sons of Jacob/For what tomorrow may bring, may a better day come…”

Cut that shit off, man. I only have one chance to book this broad and Nas and K’Naan are probably the LAST people I need to hear right now. I stopped in front of a car window and made sure my snapback and hand towel sat perfectly over my face and walked towards her. Her homegirls were busy talking to another group of people, so I grabbed her elbow gently and pulled her aside. Thank God I stayed for the let out…

“She gon’ bust it down for some damn Lime-A-Ritas…”

Come on, man; I’m about to walk over there. Her parents (I presume, anyway) excused themselves and left her sitting there alone. Let me pull my cardigan down a bit before I walk towards her table. I blew into my hand and made sure my breath didn’t retain the heat from the peppers in my Jambalaya Fettuccini. She’s smiling in my direction, but sweat is still dancing about my temples because I have no clue what the hell that means…

“One thing about music when it hits you feel no pain/White folks say it controls your brain; I know better than that…”

She looks at my console and I turn the radio to something else; what do I look like forfeiting my night plan over Dead Prez? We pull up at Outback and she checks herself in my visor mirror to make sure her eyebrows aren’t crooked. This is where the date gets interesting, though. She orders chicken wings and Moscato and starts rolling a blunt at the table. Dessert wines over an entrée would (and should) probably be an indicator of a lack of sophistication, but who cares? Look at what she’s holding in those leggings. I wanted to throw my cufflinks up and lean back in total judgment, but…those…leggings…though…

“54.11s, size 7 in girl’s…”

I laugh and love that she has no idea what those are. We sip mimosas over a Sunday brunch and share Bay Scallop Ceviche. We express our shared amazement at the city of Detroit being 18 billion dollars in debt. Detroit sucks. This is where this date gets interesting, though. She mentions her upcoming business trips and how she HATES men that wear snapbacks. I know I’m going to have to listen to Comin’ Out Hard until the stench of American bourgeoise is no longer permeating my cargo shorts, but right now, who cares? Listen to these six years of higher education stirring an intrinsic thirst for meaningful conversation. I wanted to throw my hand towel up and lick my fingers clean of Old Bay seasoning, but…this…conversation…though…

“Where is he? The man who is just like me? I heard he was hiding somewhere I can’t see…”

A simple hug and kiss on the cheek outside of her apartment. I don’t want to come in because I want her to recognize a gentleman. I’m just as happy to leave her feeling as if the night was “incomplete” as I am to cap it off with what she has been expecting all along. I sense all of this as I walk down the steps and out the building, feeling her glance from three stories up as I do so. I can’t help but smile as I start my car and reach for the Maxwell album stored in my overhead CD holder.

“I WAKE UP IN THE MORNING TO CIROC AND SOME PANCAKES!”

The night is far from finished, and I can tell that’s rare with her. There’s no kiss on the cheek because I don’t ever want her to label me as a gentleman. I’m more than happy to be what she is typically scared of, and I sense it as she walks me down the hallway into her bedroom. I feel the apprehension and can’t help but smile, all the while reassuring her that I’m not “them”, whatever that means. I wake up in the morning, grinning from ear to ear having penetrated Corporate America…

A.J. Armstrong struggles with discerning between what he wants and what he needs. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

You Might Die/While We’re At It…

I’m not raising a little Black boy, so maybe I’m not qualified to speak on this. Wait, I forgot. I AM A YOUNG BLACK MALE. I almost forgot because, fortunately, police haven’t drawn weapons on me in many years. So there’s that.

Don’t let anybody place what’s happening with these police shootings of Black kids in any “context”; young Black men are getting gunned down unjustifiably. The issue is not- nor has it ever been- what we can do to prevent this. The issue is that this keeps happening. What are you all telling your sons? At this point, what on Earth CAN you tell them?

“Never wolf-whistle at white women…” (1955)

“Don’t wear a hoodie…even in the rain…” (2012)

“Don’t be a Black man…” (Every Black man’s whole life, I think)

Seriously, what can you tell them?? Nothing comes to my mind, at least. You white, you Ben Affleck; you Black, you have an increased chance of getting shot down for something that can’t possibly be deemed worthy. I hate that this is even considered a part of real life. I hate when people say this and I hate myself for saying it, but I have to say it: we as Black people (cringe) are never supposed to accept that. However, I will never accept the types of reasoning some have expressed regarding such horrible situations:

Naw. The notion that who a young Black man is, what he is doing, or what he is wearing is somehow in direct correlation to an increasing proclivity to shoot our kids is ignorant, shortsighted, and, quite frankly, some all around FUCK SHIT. We can be poetic or we can call it what it is. Some. Fuck. Shit. So the emergence of rap music, the absence of Martin and Malcolm, and, um, whatever other fuck shit people are trying to use is a valid reason Michael Brown got gunned down for leaving a QuikTrip? Did I read that right? What about the dozens of others? Same thing, huh?

That type of thinking is not relegated to weirdos in bow ties, either (please look this guy up on Twitter. @theonebmiller. Bow tie). The post-Trayvon crusaders called for everything from keeping Black kids out of hoodies to keeping that rap noise to a minimum whilst “being out here with these white folk”. Naw. I refuse to address an issue by suggesting how I can make myself “less Black”. All the J. Crew in the world isn’t going to keep a cop from filling me with enough lead to supply Sherman-Williams with enough paint to kill us all before they realized lead-filled paint would kill us all and run-on sentences are so cool when you make obscure references and it helps to quell my anger because people are stoopid sometimes and I purposefully spelled stupid wrong or whatever but get back to the topic, A.J. I’m not telling my son to take his hoodie off in the rain. I’m not lecturing him on going smack at white women. And I damn sure am not going to tell him to let some white man tell him his music is too loud.

I will tell my son to dress for the occasion. I don’t care what you wear on your way to 7-Eleven. I will tell him to be respectful of women and that he’ll probably look like an ass if he goes at any girl recklessly and that he deserves all the ridicule in the world because of it. And 28 year-old me would probably tell young Little Homey to ‘turn the music a level higher and return the Devil’s fire’, but then my father would look at me and I’d get scared and tell him to respect other people and to not be a douchebag and I love run-on sentences but whatever. Look, having your music too loud in your car is a pet peeve and pretty douchey, but not worth taking a life over. My son will not be raised to be scared to be himself. He will be raised to understand that there are injustices in this world, and that there will always be. I refuse to have him thinking that his actions- his innocuous actions- are the sole causes of conflict. Because groupthink on this issue will be veeeeeeery conflicted once another Black kid is shot down while wearing a suit.

While we’re at it, let me address this Ray Rice issue and Stephen A. Smith’s comments regarding said issue. Everybody should stop hitting everybody. Now shut the fuck up. Ok…bye.

A.J. Armstrong is sleep tho. That’s the new motion, right? He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities

My Last Post About Women Ever, Part V: My Last Post About Women Ever (He’s Talking About Light-Skinned Women Again; You Probably Shouldn’t Read it. You Ought To, Though)

“One of the prevailing topics in your work has been the exploration of intrarace relations and- more specifically- the lampooning of “light-skinned” African American women. It is your red thread of sorts and has been a source of criticism. How do you respond to those that call your writing ‘sophomoric’, ‘undeveloped’, and ‘championing self-hatred’? “Well, White Reporter, there has always been this weird dichotomy between light and dark-skinned Black people. That divide has been there LONG before I started actually talking about it. I mean…look, all I know is America. I ain’t never been out of this country; all I know is how race relations- interracial and intraracial- have gone in this country. It interests me because the entire history of this country is checkered with questionable moments within those relations. It intrigues me. Honestly, I find humor in so much of it and in how people react to the things I say. It’s all so funny to me but I find the most humor in how light-skinned Black people- especially women- view themselves and others. That’s, I think, what I get the most enjoyment from writing, regardless of how other people feel about it. So yeah, I get why they feel that way but I’m way more self-aware than they give me credit for…” -2013 interview with the White Reporter in those Frontline Chappelle’s Show skits I always imagine that White Reporter. I even gave him a name: White Reporter. The funniest thing about everything I say is that I get everything I say. That’s kind of why I say it. It entertains me and antagonizes a group of people. Awesome. Derive from it what you will because that’s why I put it out there. I’m like those authors that write novels that high school English teachers overanalyze: “In this passage, the author makes mention of the red bed sheets in her bedroom. That signals the rage and emotion she was feeling during her struggle with her identity and efsdlkefvvjeoscowmemfpdpvpvjejfeejwqqocwfkf and some other ridiculous shit…” The bed sheets are red because that’s what Target had for the cheap, bitch. My ridiculous assumptions of light-skinned women are just that: ridiculous. Do I really believe all light-skinned women are soulless, self-serving narcissists that were born with 74 unread text messages? I’m lying…of course I do. You’re all terrible people that have been coddled by the white man and overly praised by everybody else. No light-skinned woman has ever helped me in anything I’ve ever done. Nope. Not one has ever shown any type of compassion at all. I made it through college all by myself. I don’t recall any high yellow woman assisting me in any way. There was no teacher taking interest in me and realizing potential I never felt was there. Never once did she help me with my schedule when my advisor wrongly placed me in classes I had no business being in. There were no Giant gift cards mysteriously placed in my Nike backpacks when I seemed a little sluggish. There’s no way in hell she would (rightfully) place her foot in my ass during a time of misguided ambition, blinding lust for the wrong things, and shallow intents for the wrong women. None of that even seems plausible. Not from anybody the color of the McDonald’s logo. Nah. If you’re stupid, you stopped reading a long time ago, dismissing this as more of that typical Fly Hobo nonsense. Good luck at the self-checkout, champ; your produce struggle is going to be SO REAL. Racism effectively hates an entire group of people while designating members of that same group as acceptable. The best example I’ve ever seen was on an old episode of The Jerry Springer Show when Jerry interviewed a Klu Klux Klan member that was an avid fan of Michael Jordan. Sometimes ignorance provides clarity. Sometimes somebody says absurd things in an attempt to hold up a mirror to society to show it how ugly we can be. And sometimes people are racist. Whatever. The White Reporter stopped taping a while ago. A.J. Armstrong dedicates this post to Mrs. Hope Jackson. No person achieves anything alone. He is also the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities. Pardon the swear words

Hip-Hop and the White Critic

If you haven’t yet read Amiri Baraka’s seminal piece on jazz, please read it here.

“Most jazz critics have been white Americans, but most important jazz musicians have not been.”

-Amiri Baraka, 1960

54 years later, our critics are still primarily white, our art is still being viewed through eyes that do not quite resonate, and jazz is dead. This has become a reality in the years since, an acknowledgement that what we create is open to critique by those not able to fully comprehend the context of which it was created. In 1960, it was the conception of jazz being appreciated and yet not quite understood by those white critics. Today, hip-hop has been swiped from our collective bassinets.

“As one Howard University professor said to me…’It’s fantastic how much bad taste the blues contain!’”

It’s all noise now. A garbled collection of expletives set to deep basslines. It’s not spoken truth over hypnotic backdrops- it never was to a certain generation, regardless- it’s just hyperbolic boasts in sync with noise. Or it’s noise that has stolen elements of funk, gospel, rhythm and blues, and, yes, jazz in the name of youthful ignorance. It’s why those middle-class Black Americans locked jazz away in closets of shame, and it’s why hip-hop, of any era, remains undefended during times of attack, ridicule, and outrage. It’s fantastic yet unclaimed by those that “matter”.

“…The major flaw in this approach to Negro music is that it strips the music too ingenuously of its social and cultural intent. It seeks to define jazz as an art (or a folk art) that has come out of no intelligent body of sociocultural philosophy.”

They (read: WE) focus on what you “shouldn’t” say. They (read: WE) don’t investigate. “Fuck Tha Police” is too violent, “Fight the Power” is too militant, and “Brenda’s Got a Baby” is too divisive. It’s always too…something, and therein lies the problem. It can’t ever be a reflection; they (read: WE) have to place these songs as depictions. Depictions of what’s wrong with us and not the system or environment in which they (read: WE) escaped in a different fashion. They (read: WE) hear a message but they (read: WE) don’t quite heed it. It’s just an angry noise that- at this point- only emanates from their (read: OUR) children’s bedrooms.

“Most jazz critics began as hobbyists or boyishly brash members of the American petite bourgeoisie, whose only claim to any understanding about the music was that they knew it was different; or else they had once been brave enough to make a trip into a Negro slum to hear their favorite instrumentalist defame Western musical tradition.”

They (read: THEY) knew Doggystyle was unlike anything they’ve ever heard before. They knew Harlem World had a lot of samples from songs they grew up critiquing. Tha Carter III made them love OUR thing. But they didn’t walk into Roscoe’s House of Chicken and Waffles on East Broadway before then. They didn’t venture to Uptown Manhattan until Clinton quelled their fears. They still haven’t walked the streets of Hollygrove; they just knew Wayne’s 16 songs both eschewed the “norm” and placed them in the midst of his chaos. They can analyze and review, but they can’t be us. However, the sad part of this is: they seem to appreciate it much more than we do.

54 years ago, “Jazz and the White Critic” seemed to hint at a defining piece of Black culture slowly being taken from us. Has that occurred with our newest creation? Not fully, but there are ominous signs. Wu-Tang Clan paraphernalia is a Hot Topic “Hot Topic”, Tupac resurrected at Coachella, and Macklemore just Macklemore’d the Grammys (even he was surprised, apparently). Is there anything wrong with any of this? Of course not; they (read: THEY) are remembering and channeling some of the best we have had to offer and that’s awesome. It’s only slipping from our grasp because we don’t cherish our creation. We can give it to whomever but can’t we still bob our collective heads to it? It’s not enough to paint a masterpiece; every once in a while we should stand back and admire what we created.

Rest in paradise, Amiri Baraka. A.J. Armstrong is the humbled creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities