Roll Over, Rick

His caramel baritone is singular. Like those of us at CM, you probably thought he was black, before you saw the video; not that it mattered, because his being a tiny, tiny, little, elfin Englishman, with a singing voice that dissolves panties on contact, made it even more amusing when he mounted and thrust himself into worldwide singles charts in 1987. And now he’s sodding your web-browser. Or, at least, he’s the knob with which your browser gets rogered.

I remember watching the video hundreds of times that summer, because MTV refused to play much of anything else, and for whatever reason I thought the blonde girl who appears occasionally was hot, in a sweetly flawed, Rosanna Arquette, Desperately-Seeking-Susan sort of way.

It’s twenty years gone, and I’ve a quarter of a life’s academic conditioning and pop-culture dung stinking up my skull. Three times already today, on this, April 1st, 2008, I have been rick-rolled. Here we are then, reunited. The man and his big-one have become a meme and internets phenomenon. And I didn’t believe him when he claimed he was never gonna give me up. The video, unpacked:

The man-meme appears first, outside. He is wearing sunglasses to hide his eyes–his true intentions–from others. Shadows play off lit concrete. Black/white. Black bartenders in Daisy Duke shorts bounce off fences. Inside, at a rehearsal for a banquet or wedding reception, black and white are again separated by a bar. Of course, the black bartender is at work, while tiny-dancer stands elevated, with two hot white chicks.

Suddenly, because the Rollmaster’s voice is possessed of bottomless funk, the spunky, no-nonsense, black bartender finds his equilibrium straight-up hijacked. He begins bobbing. Eventually, he’s doing the running-man. Then the bartender actually vaults over the bar, breaking the symbolic barrier between himself and the UberFunk Astmaster.

Next, we find ourselves in the night-time raincoat train station of the human soul, where the whitest white guy superego engages in very lame knee-dancing before the blondest blonde personification of the Universal ho, whose position in the Archetypes has since been usurped by Paris Hilton. Now the black fellow makes an appearance; no longer held back by the bar or the fence, he turns flips off the walls–liberated, free, at last, loose in the unconscious.

Ultimately, the video is an expression of the yearnings of white men of good will to be considered, weighed and accepted by minority communities with whom they sympathize, if not empathize, and whose cultures they appreciate. Herein barriers fall, opposites unite, taboos are transgressed, and new syntheses emerge.

Every honky wants a nod and dance from the bruthas. Some even write for Chapati Mystery, own hookahs, and are just now realizing how deeply the badly expressed hopes for racial and cultural harmonies during their late adolescence may have affected the places they hang out now.

Cuckoo

obamacross.jpgObama’s pastor, and McCain’s “advisors” pulled back the Veil on the Holy of Holies last week, exposing a brutal truth for those who live within the secular narrative. It is this: religious people believe things that seem strange to outsiders. Those religious folks also believe things that are specifically informed by their subjective experiences, which is why a black man of a particular age serving a very mainstream Church of Christ congregation on Chicago’s south side might punctuate a terrific sermon with the bombastic curse “God Damn America,” and why a white mega-pastor with no denomination to hem him might rail against the demonic forces of secular humanism or itch publicly for renewed Crusades.

We now know the name Jeremiah Wright because of a campaign phenomenon called “opposition research,” where servants of politicians build dossiers on their masters’ enemies, and because the Clinton campaign knows white people get nervous when black people yell. Talk radio, Fox outlets, and even the mainstream press are shocked, shocked, that any serious person could hold Wright’s views, and have tried, like all hell (and I suspect from horse-race fatigue) to spice the news cycle by imputing Wright’s arguments to his most famous parishioner. In addition to doing the bidding of an undead Terminatrix, they’re also staging a carnival of ignorance. There are several reasons for this amusing phenomenon.

Hypereducated and underthoughtful white people–whom, you might have noticed, tend to show up on your television a lot–are generally ignorant of American religion. Many have spent their upper-middle class, devotion-free existences shuttling from suburban McMansion to private prep school to great university to posh media post. They tend to think their experience is shared, if only by aspiration, by everyone else.

Think, if you will, of the Beverly Hills 90210 conceit of the Walshes, a family of nouveau riche Minnesotans who cashed in and abandoned the heartland to live in Beverly Hills; clearly, such places are where anyone with a lick of sense wants to be. The religious expressions of millions upon millions of Americans are not factors in the equation. They don’t exist.

That general ignorance introduces a particular ignorance of distinct sub-religions. Imagine: a young Jewish editor in a multinational publishing house, living and working in Manhattan, fresh from Swarthmore, trying to make sense of the hundreds of confusing offshoots of Protestantism, and how they govern the lives of their adherents. The signals reaching her brain do not likely contain much information about these phenomena, nor should we expect them to reach her, or those similarly situated–except when the policy-discussion touches religion, and they’re moderating.

For example, in the mid-90’s, the major media (pre-Fox, listing leftward) was aghast at the Promise Keepers movement. The news-template went something along the lines of “reactionary religion,” or “an anti-feminist backlash,” or some other nauseating trope. But the notions the Promise Keepers propounded had never, ever, left the modes of many devout Protestant families; that many in our media thought them new illustrates a tremendous disconnect.

More difficult yet is American Christianity in its distinctly black variety, which confuses even white American Christians. The churches, and their outlooks, are, like much of the American racial dynamic, artifacts of slavery. The man on the horse, with the whip and rifle, had his church and God. Below him, backs bent, fingertips numb, the oppressed sang to the same God. The scriptures, so malleable, said one thing to the slaveholder, and another to the slave. What comfortable person can read Exodus with the same eyes as one who is, in fact, enslaved? What slave–or thinking human–could parse logic that justifies slavery because Noah’s purportedly black son got wasted and put the moves on his pop?

The black American church, growing in ironic opposition to its historically racist, white counterpart, is central to its community in a way the white church is not. It is the social and economic hub of many black communities. It is the nursemaid of much of popular culture, black and white. It is one of the rare places where the arts of rhetoric–alliteration, parallelism, synecdoche, all the usual suspects–are still practiced well, without irony. The black church is, in many ways, the conscience of America. We can thank it for the Civil Rights movement, and presently, for the abrupt head-check that is Barack Obama. The black church is one of the only places, in a culture soggy with bumper-sticker patriotism, where one can hear the American Dream indicted for its shortcomings, where white America, as well as misbehaving black America, gets called on their bullshit.

Most white media folks have little experience with this fact of Christian life, aside from Eddie Murphy send-ups and the scene in The Blues Brothers where James Brown imparts the blessings of the Divine upon Jake and Elwood. Rev. Wright surprised them, because America as it is would surprise them, if they saw it. I have already written on media myopia and white American evangelicals and their beliefs here; the only thing I wish to add is that since the writing under the link was published, Rod Parsley and his pal Kenneth Blackwell may have handed Ohio to Bush, and he has become John McCain’s “spiritual advisor.”

This is a fact: neither the media, nor Obama’s tone-deaf, last-generation opponents, have ears to hear. They are doomed to surprise. As shocked as they are to hear the vocabulary of American Christianity’s angry righteousness, they will probably be wholly unable to decipher the high, white notes of a call to rouse America’s promise.

It is a mathematical certainty that Obama will be the Democratic nominee, and the Clinton machine clearly meant to terminally wound Obama’s candidacy with the Wright sermon; I suspect this is posturing for 2012, the last year a possible Clinton candidacy would be viable. But the move has backfired. Yes, Obama’s speech, already a classic, was, like John F. Kennedy’s Catholic speech, a political necessity. Yet, that did not keep it from also turning the issues, manufactured (scary black anti-Americans) and organic (the sad state of race relations in America), on their heads.

Obama was expected to “distance” and “denounce,” which are code-words for calming the easily rattled when their taboos have been violated; instead, he embraced his effusive, human clergyman. He acknowledged those who do not understand the game-rules of semi-public religious space that needed to be soothed, and explained that he, a presidential candidate, did not actually hope that God damns America. He left room for discussion with those so wounded by our systems that they would like to see such damning. Good thing, too, because as the papier maché edifice of Republican America collapses around us, it might do us some good to chat with those who have vigorous misgivings about the last few decades, or, as is the case with the black clergy, the last few centuries.

Have the chickens come home to roost? Oh, how the Empire hates that phrase! It’s an oracle calling an end to the twentieth century, with its isms and ists and coups and disappeareds and corporate fascism. It invokes the rural barnyard, Chicken George’s fighting cocks, it invokes Malcolm X, it invokes the sad admission that our chickens, metaphorically, “got out the yard” to begin with. What beautiful rhetoric, no? Seven words, and a universe of connotation: the power. Perhaps that is what those with their fists on power’s levers truly fear, rather than the trite but effective character of the Perennially Angry Black Man. They fear the Word, Which is what all Christians, black and white, ultimately worship. It is ultimately beyond their control, despite their best, Orwellian efforts. The backlash against Wright, and its flacking of Obama, is really about crushing what the black American church represents: the Word’s sharp point turned, at-large, on the recurring bastards who claim Its letter, or hide behind Its pieties, but who have never felt Its Spirit.
Continue reading “Cuckoo”

The Winter of Their Discontent

dontspinafghanis.pngBill O’Reilly is probably not as big an asshole as he appears to be, but one thing is certain, he does a terrific job playing one on radio and television. For years, Americans have contended with “entertainers-cum-pundits” setting frames around policy debates. O’Reilly’s, Limbaugh’s, Hannity’s and Beck’s characters are most likely amplifications of the personalities lying beneath them, and that’s bad enough; though, if true, it allows us to hold some hope for their immortal souls. Most actors who plays Iago are not villains off-stage, and may even hold real jobs, or lead otherwise productive lives.

O’Reilly has made his brand (and Fox News’s, it must be admitted) by promising unvarnished straight talk to, and about, “secular progressives,” (read Jews, Democrats, urbanites, gays, mainline protestants, the educated, agnostics, atheists, women, men, writers, scientists, artists, musicians, teachers, people in Minnesota, the 5.5 billion people living outside the U.S., the literate, ad nauseum) for and on behalf of, “you.”

When simply acting the provocateur, O’Reilly and his ilk can be amusing; for instance, a segment on “the failing public schools,” might be followed by an “historical expert” on “religious freedom,” viciously agreeing with O’Reilly that America was founded on an explicitly Judeo-Christian basis. One suspects O’Reilly, in that case, wouldn’t intend to prove his initial point so completely, with himself and his guests as the primary examples.
Continue reading “The Winter of Their Discontent”

Yea, that’s right! That’s right! We bad!

78835134.jpgThe assumptions nested in our electoral punditry are astounding. What’s more astounding is that we do not question them, especially when they barely conceal true, noxious racialist thinking. Why, for instance, is Don Imus a pariah, when Dick Morris and Chris Matthews can proceed without pause with lines of questioning based on the assumption that blacks only vote for blacks, women only vote for women and rednecks will vote for anybody who’ll wave the Stars & Bars? At least Imus, while admittedly tone-deaf, was trying to be amusing when he called the Rutgers women’s basketball team “nappy-headed hos.”

Since New Hampshire’s Democrats got wept away by Hillary’s histrionics, the big polling firms, whose self-esteem obviously has recovered since futzing-up two presidential elections in a row, have been navel-gazing: How could we have gotten it so wrong? they wonder. Many have begun to blame the “Wilder Effect,” which states that voters will lie if asked whom they support in a multi-racial election, because they fear not supporting the non-white candidate will cause them to appear bigoted. Some claim the Wilder effect was named for Virginia governor Douglas Wilder, whom polls cast as an easy winner in the 1994 race for U.S. Senate. Wilder went on to lose, despite the polls. NB: This is a completely true historical fact: The Wilder Effect was actually named for Gene Wilder, who was clearly the least favored of the pair in 1970’s Richard Pryor / Gene Wilder buddy movies, like Silver Streak and Stir Crazy.

The Wilder Effect is to margin-of-error what The Bell Curve is to IQ–a plausible explanation, but one that calls into question immediately the point of view and motive of the explainer. Is an explanation racist, as offered by a dottering old scientist, out of touch with modern racial sensibilities, and by virtue of his status, unused to necessarily qualifying his arguments so as not to piss off everyone within a quarter mile, a la James Watson? Is a provocateur’s jab sexist, like Larry Summers’ attempted discussion seeding that questioned female scientific aptitude? Why, probably yes. Yet Watson and Summers harmed none save extremely valuable and cherished disciplinary illusions, like the one that equates tact and education, and class illusions, like the petit bourgeois taboos against speaking frankly in terms of difference. For his part, Imus deserved to be kicked off the air, not because he was a racist, which may be so, but because his act was weak and unfunny.

But folks, noxious carcinogenic speculation–and our laziness in identifying and shouting it down–is one of the Republic’s primary problems. God knows why people say one thing and do another. But most of the time, notions that people act in certain predictable ways based on the color of their skins or the architecture of their genitalia are wrong and those who find such reasoning attractive should have their arguments fully vetted. It’s also wrong for us to allow America’s overpaid, under-thinking big-mouths to consistently prune and water the meme that people act in certain predictable ways based on the color of their skins or the architecture of their genitalia. It’s quite dangerous to do so, in fact. That James Watson declines in obscurity while Manhattan’s ignorant cable news presenters go about their destructive business is a crime against clear thought, common sense, and the notion that social norms ought to have any consistency at all.