I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.
Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.
Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.
After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Thanks To You Blog Readers and Femme Mafia Shout Out!
I thought that I would write an appreciation to my blog readers. I am always surprised at the number of people that actual wade their way through the largerly unrelated exhortations that I spew out onto the web. I am always tickled when folks leave comments on things that I have written, but I have come to realize, from passing comments from folks I see in the real world, that many of my friends are out there reading away. Thank you to you all! And thank you to my mystery readers in Israel. Shalom y'all. Shalom.
Just as a side note, I hung out with folks from the Minneapolis chapter of Femme Mafia last night. We had an absolute blast. After a meeting in the park where we shared some stir fried bok choy and a couple of salads passed around, we all piled in at Jack and Nicole's pad and watched Dirty Dancing outside in the backyard on a projector screen (thanks Jayel!). We were all starving, and the little bags of baby carrots were not quite cutting it. At one point, several of us were praying for Jesus to send down sausage pizza from Heave to sate our hunger. Jesus wasn't taking calls at that time, unfortunately.
Over the course of the evening we made many a lusty comment about Patrick Swayze's tight little bum, there was group consensus that the dirty dancing lesbian and gay twink couple were our favorite, and, of course, there was general agreement that Patrick put the Sway in Swayze...aka...he's a big old mo. Cuz...nobody puts baby in a corner.
After such a great evening, there is only one thing to say....TATTERS!
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Love Poem
I have a very dear friend that I met my first week of high school in Ms. Simon's sculpture class. Nicole Harris was a year older than me and and shared the work table next to me with another Nicole...Nicole McGill. When I first met Nicole Harris I hated the woman. She was mean and wicked, and I wanted to sculpt a house and drop it on her. Then steal her fierce ass shoes. She and Nicole lied to me and told me that they had the same Dad but different Moms. My gullible ass believed them. At the time, if you would have told me that that 16 years later that she and I would still be friends, or that I would spend more than one Thanksgiving and Christmas with her entire family, I would have sculpted a house and dropped it on you too. It wasn't until I was a sophomore that she and I became friends. We both competed on the speech team together. She was the shining star of the team, and, with all humility, I was the up and coming speech wiz at old Henry High. Over the next two years, we became closer, until, my junior year I realized two things: I was in love with Nicole Harris, and I did not want to have sex with her in any way. Before that point I knew I had attraction to guys but I wasn't sure if I did to girls. Nicole sealed the deal for me. I emotionally loved her, I physically wanted a guy from the soccer team. I was a big old mo.
That's the background behind my newest poem.
Love Poem
For Noodle
For her I used to write love poems
mornings spent before sunrise
stargazing
she was my Polaris
the magnetic north that drew
my spirit towards pen & paper
poetry was the only way to reconcile love without lust
desire to have and to be without desire to be with
For her I used to write love poems
I could not write for myself
I didn't believe love was for me
so I gave it to her
hastily scribbled odes & lines
wrapping her in soft folds of adolescent adoration
she awakened my self-awareness
as they crowned her homecoming queen
as they handed her roses
I sat in the bleechers
reached for poetic razors
surgical phrases
thrust into my thorassic cavity
with a reverant ripping
from across the crowded room silently
I handed her my heart
I offered her my pulse
begged her to take the poetry
take the pain
I begged her to tell me how I could love her but not want her
how poetry could be serrated t-cells sawing at my bones
how every day I committed suicide on paper
pulling tape worms from my gut
slamming their writhing bodies into tragic attempts to digest
the secret that stood between my cock
and my heart
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-14 June 2008
That's the background behind my newest poem.
Love Poem
For Noodle
For her I used to write love poems
mornings spent before sunrise
stargazing
she was my Polaris
the magnetic north that drew
my spirit towards pen & paper
poetry was the only way to reconcile love without lust
desire to have and to be without desire to be with
For her I used to write love poems
I could not write for myself
I didn't believe love was for me
so I gave it to her
hastily scribbled odes & lines
wrapping her in soft folds of adolescent adoration
she awakened my self-awareness
as they crowned her homecoming queen
as they handed her roses
I sat in the bleechers
reached for poetic razors
surgical phrases
thrust into my thorassic cavity
with a reverant ripping
from across the crowded room silently
I handed her my heart
I offered her my pulse
begged her to take the poetry
take the pain
I begged her to tell me how I could love her but not want her
how poetry could be serrated t-cells sawing at my bones
how every day I committed suicide on paper
pulling tape worms from my gut
slamming their writhing bodies into tragic attempts to digest
the secret that stood between my cock
and my heart
-Brandon Lacy Campos
-Minneapolis, MN
-14 June 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Obama and Me
I work in the political field. I believe that I have a fairly sophisticated analysis of progressive politics. I have worked for almost 15 years in a wide range of political efforts including radical grassroots social change as far right as conventional electoral politics (ranging from the Democratic Party to the Independence and Green Parties). Each year, I have gained a clearer and clearer image of the world I would like to see and a better understanding of some of the tools that will get us there. I also know that reform will only take us so far. At some point, whether we prepare for it or not, a revolution will again hit this land mass---and I know that with preparation that can be a democratically based revolution made through the creative use of just democratic practice that acknowledges and compensates for oppression or it will be a bloody revolution with an outcome that is unknown but will, most assuredly, result in great repression.
I know that Barack Obama is, at best, a strategic choice for moving forward with some of the reforms that are necessary to make a democratic revolution possibly. I know that on the great and most pressing issues of the day: war, capitalism, systems of power based in oppression, American hegemony and empire, a President Obama will be more palatable than a Republican president but he will be no messiah signaling the end of those societal cankers.
Yet, with all my heart and soul, I pray that the next President of the United States is Barack Obama.
This evening, I met with two of my co-artists from the group Los Palabristas (www.myspace.com/palabristas). We met to record some of our poetry. I recorded two poems tonight: Stump Speech, which you can find on this blog, and Big Sam, which I will post shortly. One poem is my response to this election year and this country in general. The other poem is a story about my family's history as slaves. I then logged onto my computer and saw an ad that asked the question, “Will Barack Obama be the first African American president?,” and I felt the spirit of Big Sam draw in breath.
Whether or not Obama will be a history maker in terms of presidential achievements to me, at this time, is a hope but not the point. For me, right now, in this moment with a deeply racialized anger sitting just beneath my skin, I want Barack Obama in the White House for the simple reason that 50 years ago, the prevailing attitude of the majority of people living in this country was not only would no black person ever sit in the White House but that no black person had the intelligence, integrity, or ability to do so. The day that President Obama takes his oath of office will not be the day that all past wrongs against people of African descent will be reconciled. Most definitely not. But it will be the day when the spirit of all black people on either side of the ocean, will have the chance to utter a collective fuck you to those that once consider us beasts of burden lacking a soul and having a mind that was akin to that of a child.
I know, academically, that Western civilization owns its existence to Africa. I know that some of the greatest social and scientific thought and achievement of the modern and ancient world has been created by people of African descent. I know that when Columbus invaded America there were empires in Africa of such wealth and learning that they would not allow European scholars to teach in their universities and European monarchs were weak barbarians in comparison. But the academic knowing of my history and its strength is not sufficient to overcome a spiritual malaise that was beaten into my ancestors at the end of a whip and choked into them at the end of a rope.
Barack Obama represents the greatest and most powerful “kiss my ass” to the legacy of racism, slavery, and genocide in these several states.
And for that reason, I will be casting my vote for Senator Obama on November 4, 2008.
I know that Barack Obama is, at best, a strategic choice for moving forward with some of the reforms that are necessary to make a democratic revolution possibly. I know that on the great and most pressing issues of the day: war, capitalism, systems of power based in oppression, American hegemony and empire, a President Obama will be more palatable than a Republican president but he will be no messiah signaling the end of those societal cankers.
Yet, with all my heart and soul, I pray that the next President of the United States is Barack Obama.
This evening, I met with two of my co-artists from the group Los Palabristas (www.myspace.com/palabristas). We met to record some of our poetry. I recorded two poems tonight: Stump Speech, which you can find on this blog, and Big Sam, which I will post shortly. One poem is my response to this election year and this country in general. The other poem is a story about my family's history as slaves. I then logged onto my computer and saw an ad that asked the question, “Will Barack Obama be the first African American president?,” and I felt the spirit of Big Sam draw in breath.
Whether or not Obama will be a history maker in terms of presidential achievements to me, at this time, is a hope but not the point. For me, right now, in this moment with a deeply racialized anger sitting just beneath my skin, I want Barack Obama in the White House for the simple reason that 50 years ago, the prevailing attitude of the majority of people living in this country was not only would no black person ever sit in the White House but that no black person had the intelligence, integrity, or ability to do so. The day that President Obama takes his oath of office will not be the day that all past wrongs against people of African descent will be reconciled. Most definitely not. But it will be the day when the spirit of all black people on either side of the ocean, will have the chance to utter a collective fuck you to those that once consider us beasts of burden lacking a soul and having a mind that was akin to that of a child.
I know, academically, that Western civilization owns its existence to Africa. I know that some of the greatest social and scientific thought and achievement of the modern and ancient world has been created by people of African descent. I know that when Columbus invaded America there were empires in Africa of such wealth and learning that they would not allow European scholars to teach in their universities and European monarchs were weak barbarians in comparison. But the academic knowing of my history and its strength is not sufficient to overcome a spiritual malaise that was beaten into my ancestors at the end of a whip and choked into them at the end of a rope.
Barack Obama represents the greatest and most powerful “kiss my ass” to the legacy of racism, slavery, and genocide in these several states.
And for that reason, I will be casting my vote for Senator Obama on November 4, 2008.
Big Sam
For Big Sam Haynes, my Great-Great-Great Granddaddy
I got an email the other day from Miss Carol Haynes, a new found cousin. She wrote, “The Nickells were the family who owned us when we were slaves, and while most of us got free Big Sam is still in chains.”
Big Sam was a good nigger man according to the chapter called “The Darkies,” in the Nickell family history. Legend has it that Big Sam was the best team driving man in Greenbrier County.
One day he turned a team of horses around in a narrow alleyway and a white man offered to pay top dollar to buy that good nigger.
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam looked at that white man and thought, “it would be so easy to kill him to turn loose this team and run him over, pound his white skin into the dirty stone of this street, turn the horses in circle after circle until his pale pink skin is dark, but not like mine. His skin will be bruised, dirty, the color of shit ground into snow. It would never be, could never be the deep shades of ebony, onyx, sun kissed carbon that is my holy African inheritance.”
I wonder if he thought those things, while he Sambo-ed, and through gritted teeth, words digging double hands into the flesh of his tongue as he said, “thank you, suh.”
Miss Carol’s email continued said she’d spoken with a Nickell descendant that said, “Big Sam was such a good nig…negro man that my sister keeps a picture of him on her wall.”
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam’s ghost looks out of that photo, his spirit raging at 150 years of hanging, swinging by an invisible noose, watching television and screaming at the Jena Six, that professor at Columbia, that pick up truck in Alabama, at all the nooses visible and invisible hanging around the necks of his people his children his familial diaspora. Does he call on Yemaya and Oshun, Legba and Ogun, does he demand that Jesus climb down from his cross and take up his Father’s old testament solutions, fire, salt, boils, locusts, the bellies of whales. Does his spirit refuse to kneel before the throne of God because his knees were bent for too damn long. Does he stand outside of Heaven’s gates refusing to come in until his picture comes down?"
And I wonder.
If he has found the peace that passes my understanding, if he can laugh and cry at the circumstances of his life, if he can turn the other cheek, if he can tell me how to calm the fire raging deep within me in places dark, wet, primal that I never knew existed until the day I learned the name of our former slave masters, until I had a target for my sometimes inarticulate pen, the why behind my need to sing spirituals not of escaping but taking back the spirit beaten, hung, swung, raped, worked, and sold out of my grandparents, why at 30 the internet knows more than I know about my own family.
And I wonder.
If Big Sam is waiting for me like he waited for Loma, Juanita, and Druesilla. Did he meet them just the other side of the setting sun and welcome them home? Did he watch as they shed skins that once imprisoned them? Did he hold them as they shouted, hollered, tore at their own throats to release their pain and joy, their fear and confusion, did he walk them along that dark, uneven path towards understanding, catch them as they stumbled, stopped them as they contemplated running back over the horizon to the bondage of the familiar, the safety found in constant aching.
And I wonder.
How to rescue Big Sam. How to set free my great-great-great Grandfather. How to tear down the wall….strung up with strange fruit….blood fruit….my blood…my history.
And I wonder.
If it is really Big Sam that needs freeing…
I got an email the other day from Miss Carol Haynes, a new found cousin. She wrote, “The Nickells were the family who owned us when we were slaves, and while most of us got free Big Sam is still in chains.”
Big Sam was a good nigger man according to the chapter called “The Darkies,” in the Nickell family history. Legend has it that Big Sam was the best team driving man in Greenbrier County.
One day he turned a team of horses around in a narrow alleyway and a white man offered to pay top dollar to buy that good nigger.
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam looked at that white man and thought, “it would be so easy to kill him to turn loose this team and run him over, pound his white skin into the dirty stone of this street, turn the horses in circle after circle until his pale pink skin is dark, but not like mine. His skin will be bruised, dirty, the color of shit ground into snow. It would never be, could never be the deep shades of ebony, onyx, sun kissed carbon that is my holy African inheritance.”
I wonder if he thought those things, while he Sambo-ed, and through gritted teeth, words digging double hands into the flesh of his tongue as he said, “thank you, suh.”
Miss Carol’s email continued said she’d spoken with a Nickell descendant that said, “Big Sam was such a good nig…negro man that my sister keeps a picture of him on her wall.”
And I wonder.
I wonder if Big Sam’s ghost looks out of that photo, his spirit raging at 150 years of hanging, swinging by an invisible noose, watching television and screaming at the Jena Six, that professor at Columbia, that pick up truck in Alabama, at all the nooses visible and invisible hanging around the necks of his people his children his familial diaspora. Does he call on Yemaya and Oshun, Legba and Ogun, does he demand that Jesus climb down from his cross and take up his Father’s old testament solutions, fire, salt, boils, locusts, the bellies of whales. Does his spirit refuse to kneel before the throne of God because his knees were bent for too damn long. Does he stand outside of Heaven’s gates refusing to come in until his picture comes down?"
And I wonder.
If he has found the peace that passes my understanding, if he can laugh and cry at the circumstances of his life, if he can turn the other cheek, if he can tell me how to calm the fire raging deep within me in places dark, wet, primal that I never knew existed until the day I learned the name of our former slave masters, until I had a target for my sometimes inarticulate pen, the why behind my need to sing spirituals not of escaping but taking back the spirit beaten, hung, swung, raped, worked, and sold out of my grandparents, why at 30 the internet knows more than I know about my own family.
And I wonder.
If Big Sam is waiting for me like he waited for Loma, Juanita, and Druesilla. Did he meet them just the other side of the setting sun and welcome them home? Did he watch as they shed skins that once imprisoned them? Did he hold them as they shouted, hollered, tore at their own throats to release their pain and joy, their fear and confusion, did he walk them along that dark, uneven path towards understanding, catch them as they stumbled, stopped them as they contemplated running back over the horizon to the bondage of the familiar, the safety found in constant aching.
And I wonder.
How to rescue Big Sam. How to set free my great-great-great Grandfather. How to tear down the wall….strung up with strange fruit….blood fruit….my blood…my history.
And I wonder.
If it is really Big Sam that needs freeing…
Monday, June 9, 2008
Pay My Telephone Bills
I am tired. The sun is shining outside, I am nursing a cup of java, and I am so tired that if my state representative wasn't sitting at a table across from me in this coffee shop, I would shamelessly let my head drop to my chest and start drooling.
Someone somewhere forgot to tell “the movement” about the 40 hour work week, mandatory lunch breaks, and vacation. I have been going strong now since weekend before weekend before last. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Which is why I am so damn upset that, like so many non-profits, we are facing shutting our doors.
In a world that values conformity, corporate principles, and shady values...working for a self-identified revolutionary organization whose aim is to rip apart the oppressive power systems of this country and re-build using democratic practices rooted in liberation is pretty much a recipe for reducing your potential funding streams to your crazy eccentric uncle Fred who wears a bra on his head and the millions of poor folks that want to see real change in the world.
Unfortunately, Fred is too worried about the aliens scanning his brain waves to write a check, and we don't have the advertising budget to reach the millions of natural allies that would be happy to send us $5 to support our work (100,000 people x $5=a budget for revolutionary change). See Mom, I paid attention in math class.
I have faith that my little organization that this weekend blew the tops off roughly a thousand folks that attended our workshops and plenaries during Democracy Day and the National Conference on Media Reform will still be around three months from now. But, we could use your help.
If you believe that this country has some seriously deep flaws and needs some serious help. Then take a serious moment to go to www.libertytreefdr.org, and consider making a serious donation.
Someone somewhere forgot to tell “the movement” about the 40 hour work week, mandatory lunch breaks, and vacation. I have been going strong now since weekend before weekend before last. Don't get me wrong, I love my job. Which is why I am so damn upset that, like so many non-profits, we are facing shutting our doors.
In a world that values conformity, corporate principles, and shady values...working for a self-identified revolutionary organization whose aim is to rip apart the oppressive power systems of this country and re-build using democratic practices rooted in liberation is pretty much a recipe for reducing your potential funding streams to your crazy eccentric uncle Fred who wears a bra on his head and the millions of poor folks that want to see real change in the world.
Unfortunately, Fred is too worried about the aliens scanning his brain waves to write a check, and we don't have the advertising budget to reach the millions of natural allies that would be happy to send us $5 to support our work (100,000 people x $5=a budget for revolutionary change). See Mom, I paid attention in math class.
I have faith that my little organization that this weekend blew the tops off roughly a thousand folks that attended our workshops and plenaries during Democracy Day and the National Conference on Media Reform will still be around three months from now. But, we could use your help.
If you believe that this country has some seriously deep flaws and needs some serious help. Then take a serious moment to go to www.libertytreefdr.org, and consider making a serious donation.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Cousin Jimmy
Last night, I stood up in front of five hundred media and democracy reform leaders. On the stage next to me were Joe Bleifuss, Amy Goodman, and John Nichols. Rob Richie from FairVote and Solange from Public Campaign were two of the three welcome speakers. I was the third. My job was to welcome the crowd to Minneapolis and share a little bit about the Liberty Tree analysis. I stood up, with no preparation, with two glasses of cheap chardonnay in me, and I caught the spirit. I don't know where it came from but for two minutes the words rolled off my tongue. And the audience was insane. People were cheering and clapping throughout the entire speech. As I left the stage, Amy Goodman gave me a broad smile. John Nichols stood up and enthusiastically shook my hand. And Solange leaned over and whispered that she never wanted to speak after me. Two old ladies stopped me and asked me for my contact information, and a freelance writer said that she would like to write an article about me. I was embarrassed by the praise of dozens of people.
And I can't remember a damn word I said.
It was an amazing climax to a day that I had been co-planning for seven months. And then my Mom called.
I have a cousin named James Wakefield. Jimmy is not just my favorite cousin, he is my white, straight radical twin. He has a twin brother, actually. But in the way that he and I see the world, in the work that we do, in the way that we believe in change, he and I are alike. As we have gotten older our family has begun to swear that we look alike. I don't see it. But our Mothers swear to it. And Mom's know best.
My cousin Jimmy also has leukemia. Last December he was diagnosed with leukemia. In February he had an experimental bone marrow stem cell transplant. The doctors were calling him the miracle kid. His immune system was rebounding. His blood type was going to be different (it would be his older brothers...as he was the one that provided the stem cells). And last night, my Mom called to tell me that Jimmy's cancer had come back.
I was standing in the lobby of the Hilton and the world seemed to tip sideways. When I found out that he had cancer the first time, I didn't cry. I knew that he would kick cancer right in the face. My family for all its faults does a few things well: throw a hell of a party, when faced with crisis we come together like a Roman phalanx and we survive. Last night, I stood in the hallway of the Hilton and held David Cobb's hand and cried. Jimmy is brilliant. He has a huge heart. He just got engaged to an amazing, sassy, lovely French woman named Marie. He has a beautiful two year old nephew that loves his Uncle Jimmy. He taught English in Korea. He lived in Senegal. He understands racism and his role as a white man in fighting it. He is hilarious. He is my family.
I stood there with David, and I cried because there isn't shit I can do about any of this. I pride myself on being a crisis manager. When my friends have problems, I am a person they call to help them figure it out. My fucking strength finder says strategy is one of my greatest strengths. And there isn't anything I can do about my cousin's cancer.
But I can pray. Even though I am really pissed at God right now. I'm not going to let him get off easy. I am going to be so far in his damn ear that he is going to either listen to me or smite me. And if he smites me, at least I'll be able to let him know what I think about all this in person.
And I can't remember a damn word I said.
It was an amazing climax to a day that I had been co-planning for seven months. And then my Mom called.
I have a cousin named James Wakefield. Jimmy is not just my favorite cousin, he is my white, straight radical twin. He has a twin brother, actually. But in the way that he and I see the world, in the work that we do, in the way that we believe in change, he and I are alike. As we have gotten older our family has begun to swear that we look alike. I don't see it. But our Mothers swear to it. And Mom's know best.
My cousin Jimmy also has leukemia. Last December he was diagnosed with leukemia. In February he had an experimental bone marrow stem cell transplant. The doctors were calling him the miracle kid. His immune system was rebounding. His blood type was going to be different (it would be his older brothers...as he was the one that provided the stem cells). And last night, my Mom called to tell me that Jimmy's cancer had come back.
I was standing in the lobby of the Hilton and the world seemed to tip sideways. When I found out that he had cancer the first time, I didn't cry. I knew that he would kick cancer right in the face. My family for all its faults does a few things well: throw a hell of a party, when faced with crisis we come together like a Roman phalanx and we survive. Last night, I stood in the hallway of the Hilton and held David Cobb's hand and cried. Jimmy is brilliant. He has a huge heart. He just got engaged to an amazing, sassy, lovely French woman named Marie. He has a beautiful two year old nephew that loves his Uncle Jimmy. He taught English in Korea. He lived in Senegal. He understands racism and his role as a white man in fighting it. He is hilarious. He is my family.
I stood there with David, and I cried because there isn't shit I can do about any of this. I pride myself on being a crisis manager. When my friends have problems, I am a person they call to help them figure it out. My fucking strength finder says strategy is one of my greatest strengths. And there isn't anything I can do about my cousin's cancer.
But I can pray. Even though I am really pissed at God right now. I'm not going to let him get off easy. I am going to be so far in his damn ear that he is going to either listen to me or smite me. And if he smites me, at least I'll be able to let him know what I think about all this in person.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
The Super Duper Magical Negro Strikes Again...or Does She
Sometime in the last year, I fell completely in love with Grey's Anatomy. The show is well written, has clever dialogue and the storylines are less predictable than my other favorite doctor saves all show House.
My favorite character, of course is the Chief Resident, Miranda, who also happens to be the only black woman on the show besides the occasional appearance of the wife of the Chief of Surgery. Back in 2001 at a speech at Yale, Spike Lee coined the phrase super duper magical Negro. He used this term to identify the stereotypical character that has appeared over and over again in cinema and literature. In general, it is a maid or a slave or a criminal or a janitor that has some magical power or amazing power of insight. And, and this is the important part, said working class Negro with supernatural powers uses them to solve the problems of one or more clueless white people.
Now, admittedly, Miranda has not yet, as of season four, demonstrated any particular ability to see directly through a patients chest at their internal organs, shoot lasers from her eyes do to microscopic brain surgery, or stop the hearts of annoying interns by snapping her fingers. But, particularly in the first two seasons, she plays the role of the thunderstorm of power and strength (with occasional vulnerability) that blazes into the room smacks an intern in the back of the head and then gives them just enough down home country advice to make the white person think. She never gives the answer, and she sure doesn't make it easy on the poor white boy or girl, but she is the catalyst that allows them to see through their mental fog (or post-coital fog) to the truth at the heart of the matter.
In that Miranda is not a poor, downtrodden black woman in a do-rag kowtowing to massuh weaving roots into a shut-your-mouth brew while making a pot of collards and chitlin's, she stands slightly outside of the official recipe of the Super Duper Magical Negro. But, in that she shows up just in the nick of time with a black matron authority (and sometimes Mammy reminiscent role of nurturing and teaching ethics and appropriate behavior to white folks that are technical her superiors but bow to her for her motherly ways) , she is very true to type.
I admit that I have not seen the full second season or the entire third season, but I did watch the fourth season and very little had changed with her character except that she was allowed more depth of character and her superhumanness was placed in check by the imminent loss of her husband. She was finally forced to recognize that she was not made of bionic parts and Dupont plastics. I am interested to see at what point in the series the humanizing of the magical Negro begins and if, in the season to come, her character will be allowed to deepen and broaden, portraying the undeniable brilliance and strengths that are the hallmark and heritage of black women but also the very real historical burden, pain, and struggle (internal and external) that has forced black women to try and make themselves into Spike Lee's Super Duper Magical Heroes.
My favorite character, of course is the Chief Resident, Miranda, who also happens to be the only black woman on the show besides the occasional appearance of the wife of the Chief of Surgery. Back in 2001 at a speech at Yale, Spike Lee coined the phrase super duper magical Negro. He used this term to identify the stereotypical character that has appeared over and over again in cinema and literature. In general, it is a maid or a slave or a criminal or a janitor that has some magical power or amazing power of insight. And, and this is the important part, said working class Negro with supernatural powers uses them to solve the problems of one or more clueless white people.
Now, admittedly, Miranda has not yet, as of season four, demonstrated any particular ability to see directly through a patients chest at their internal organs, shoot lasers from her eyes do to microscopic brain surgery, or stop the hearts of annoying interns by snapping her fingers. But, particularly in the first two seasons, she plays the role of the thunderstorm of power and strength (with occasional vulnerability) that blazes into the room smacks an intern in the back of the head and then gives them just enough down home country advice to make the white person think. She never gives the answer, and she sure doesn't make it easy on the poor white boy or girl, but she is the catalyst that allows them to see through their mental fog (or post-coital fog) to the truth at the heart of the matter.
In that Miranda is not a poor, downtrodden black woman in a do-rag kowtowing to massuh weaving roots into a shut-your-mouth brew while making a pot of collards and chitlin's, she stands slightly outside of the official recipe of the Super Duper Magical Negro. But, in that she shows up just in the nick of time with a black matron authority (and sometimes Mammy reminiscent role of nurturing and teaching ethics and appropriate behavior to white folks that are technical her superiors but bow to her for her motherly ways) , she is very true to type.
I admit that I have not seen the full second season or the entire third season, but I did watch the fourth season and very little had changed with her character except that she was allowed more depth of character and her superhumanness was placed in check by the imminent loss of her husband. She was finally forced to recognize that she was not made of bionic parts and Dupont plastics. I am interested to see at what point in the series the humanizing of the magical Negro begins and if, in the season to come, her character will be allowed to deepen and broaden, portraying the undeniable brilliance and strengths that are the hallmark and heritage of black women but also the very real historical burden, pain, and struggle (internal and external) that has forced black women to try and make themselves into Spike Lee's Super Duper Magical Heroes.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Humility Is Not My Favorite Virtue
I have had a bad habit lately (basically for a week) of lashing out at folks when the true target of my ire is someone else. I did it to Tay last week. I did it to Ross today. I am batting 0-2 right now. Sometimes I hate being a Minnesotan.
Passive aggressiveness is fed to us her from the tit. Before we can walk we can snub, cold shoulder, patronize, and plot the destruction of our assassins in such a way that the Medicis themselves would stand up and cheer.
I pride myself on trying to be as direct as possible with folks. I have come a long way from the time when I practice passive aggressive behavior so well I could convince the target of my ire to be angry at themselves for something I did. That was a truly evil super power. But, I gave up my wicked ways and instead sought to use my powers for good.
For the last week I've felt like Superman when he touches green Kryptonite...my evil super twin comes out and hurls all my anger and frustration at the innocent bystander standing right next to my true target.
Today I publicly apologized for lashing out at Ross. Humble pie tastes like rotted ass dipped in vomit swirled in baby shit and covered in mutant pissed off maggots. But swallow it I did.
Passive aggressiveness is fed to us her from the tit. Before we can walk we can snub, cold shoulder, patronize, and plot the destruction of our assassins in such a way that the Medicis themselves would stand up and cheer.
I pride myself on trying to be as direct as possible with folks. I have come a long way from the time when I practice passive aggressive behavior so well I could convince the target of my ire to be angry at themselves for something I did. That was a truly evil super power. But, I gave up my wicked ways and instead sought to use my powers for good.
For the last week I've felt like Superman when he touches green Kryptonite...my evil super twin comes out and hurls all my anger and frustration at the innocent bystander standing right next to my true target.
Today I publicly apologized for lashing out at Ross. Humble pie tastes like rotted ass dipped in vomit swirled in baby shit and covered in mutant pissed off maggots. But swallow it I did.
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