Minneapolis

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

Transcendent

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they ain’t never gon’ forget how they made a muhfucka feel.”

-Maya Angelou, loosely quoted

We tend to qualify greatness. Outside factors and variables matter to us almost as much as inherent talent. ‘He or she was great, BUT…’; ‘(insert generational talent) would never be as great in (insert timespan of most reverence), etc. So much is contingent on the hypothetical, we can overlook what’s happening before our very eyes. Nostalgia also skews the way we view things. At best, we’re subjective and fair. At our most typical, we hold some dearly simply because their art is representative of something special in our lives. We rarely ever produce a fair assessment of an artist OR their work, but judging from the reaction of Prince’s death, it’s fair to use his art only as a background to how the man HIMSELF made us all feel.

Even in death, there are very few entertainers held in universal reverence. It’s usually through a combination of death and eventual change in societal consciousness that we retroactively applaud our luminaries. Admiration is a minefield most of our heroes and idols fail to successfully navigate. Hindsight often serves to capture our stars at their brightest and encapsulate them at their finest and most virtuous, despite how polarizing their careers may have been. The immediacy of death tends to bring forth a collective- and selective- stroll through our memories. While we’re all mining our sadness for the nuggets of joy Prince provided us throughout the years, it’s in the varied arrivals to our solace that make him uniquely great.

So why do you love him?

Of course, the tangible reasons are all there, the music being the most obvious and, perhaps, the least important of all. We loved the music then, and we’ll cherish it even more now. His SOUND has become so ubiquitous and (poorly) imitated, the fact his own catalog remains so exclusive and inaccessible is brilliantly ironic. Few artists can ooze eroticism while largely eschewing misogyny. Fewer still can seamlessly reappear every few years with the exact same aplomb with which he captivated us all. Even fewer can do this (look at Tom Petty’s face; he’s out here hating sooooooo hard).

But why do We love him?

THEY say he transcended race. OTHERS say he succeeded in spite of it. OUR arms were wrapped tightly around him because We knew how content he was in them, to hell with who demanded anything different. He won Their awards, and still let Us know how much pride he felt to still win his own. He knew Our lives mattered, and We cherished his in earnest.

Why does she love him?

“Heeeeeeey Valentina, tell yo mama she should give me a call…”

…Because of shit like that.

Why does she AND he love him?

There was an intangible, yet definitive aura about him. Our indoctrinated concepts of masculinity got shattered underneath a pair of purple high heels. Here a man stood at 5’7”- 5’2” without those heels- both resonating with men about his Broken Heart (Again) and usurping the hearts of their women, one chord at a time. Here this man stood, clad in purple velvet pants and a white blouse, the envy of all that became enamored in his dimples and curly hair and brazen sexuality. Here stood a man so comfortable in his masculinity that he could both reassure and disappoint us all in a mere six lines. His sexuality was unarguably concrete, yet incredibly fluid. How could we ever object either way?

To hear Prince speak and act was a pleasure in itself. To see him perform was otherworldly. The man gave us everything: intrigue, insightfulness, mystery, passion, ambiguity, comedy, and utter pettiness whenever we so desired. We love him for so many reasons; we’re all hurt because of one.

Why do I mourn?

Because the one man I thought to be immortal fell. Because someone so supernatural is susceptible to the same vices, diseases, and misfortune as I. Because his death makes me acutely aware of my own mortality. I’ve always thought I could die at any time; the death of Prince only serves to force me to KNOW I could. Because someone so unaffected by the constraints of space and time as Prince could suddenly succumb to them. Because Prince never showed up to your event, he materialized. Because Prince never walked onto a stage, he floated. Because Prince never spoke, he summoned the words from the air left vacant by our bated breath. Because Prince never began, he just was. The man is magical, so there will never be an end. And because of that, he will always be.

“Everybody’s going Uptown; that’s where I wanna be…”

From my Uptown to yours in the sky, I wish you peace. A.J. Armstrong is the creator of The Fly Hobo and His World of Oddities