Soon I'll Be 60 Years Old

 

Once I was 7 years old…

My Nana told me, “Boy if you don’t put down that damn comic book, and straighten up this room…” And I did, quickly. After, I went right on reading, such was my love for the Amazing Spider-Man. 

In the story, he was battling the Prowler. Imagine my shock when Spidey unmasked the villain and he was a black kid. A teenager named Hobie Brown with a chip on his shoulder who’d turned to a life of crime. The backstory for this turn, to me, was wax paper flimsy. He’d been fired from his job at the —wait for it— car wash and jumped the tracks into a life of crime to make a name for himself. Compared to the origin stories of Norman Osborn, Eddie Brock,  Adrian Toomes, and others in the Web-Slingers rogue gallery, Brown’s left much to be desired.

But Spidey convinced the kid to go straight and narrow, The Prowler became a hero, and for the next 28 years I saw most black superheroes my eyes came across with similar back stories.

Luke Cage, the first Black Marvel character with his own title,  the personification of white America’s belief that black men are somehow bulletproof;  ex-con.

Blade, the Black Vampire Hunter whose feature film trilogy sparked the birth of the MCU the movie Ironman would later get credit for; born in a whore house and became a gang member as a teenager before becoming the scourge of all creatures of the night.

Sam “The Falcon” Wilson, renowned sidekick to Captain America, lost both his parents to street violence, but did he use his almost supernatural ability to communicate with birds to become a prominent Ornithologist? Naw, he changed his name to “Snap” moved out west and became a gang banger as well.

Ororo “Storm” Monroe, daughter of an African Princess, first woman of African descent in any major comics company, was a petty thief in her early childhood.

Then there’s Spawn, the assassin with the devil-worshipping mom; Firestorm, the black boy with limitless control over the elements who can only wield it when fused with a middle-aged white man, and  I’m not even going to get into the mindfuck of the relationship between Cloak and Dagger.

Once I realized, I couldn’t unsee it. For every Black Lightning and Mr. Terrific, true Black excellence in their comic book universes, there were three Prowlers. To me, it seemed the only road to being a hero for a person who looked like me involved first getting your ass kicked for being a villain.

So imagine my excitement when Marvel brought the Black Panther to the silver screen. A God’s honest, Black,  King of Kings.  I remember telling a friend when he broke the news to me that “Representation was so important.” 

He laughed the way white people do, never truly faced with the issue, so I told him about my “You can’t be a Black hero without being a villain first Theory.” If he thought I was being overly dramatic, I’ll never know. I don’t think we’re friends anymore.

Comics, whether adults read or not,  at their core, speak to children. What were those comics saying to me, a child who put so much stock in the world’s they created, about the place I’d have within them if I were ever so lucky?

To be fair, comics have come a long way. My son’s favorite character when he was seven years old was Spider-Man as well, but not Peter Parker. Miles Morales, equal parts Black and Puerto Rican. This Spider-Man resonates with him as a dark skinned boy with a similar makeup, in much the same way I related to Pete as a shy bookworm with an elderly caretaker. Of course, Morales’ uncle is the modern day Prowler, but I’ll happily take that degree of separation.

If this seems trivial, or like I’m grasping at straws, you may be right, but I’m thankful Miles doesn’t have what once was the standard black hero backstory. Just in case, my son —like me— wonders to himself what kind of story he’d have if he were thrust into their technicolor universe.

Once I was 14 years old…

My Step-daddy told me, “Boy turn that TV off and carry your ass to bed.”

And I did. I lay awake long after my brothers were asleep, the sound of their snores barely audible as I stared at the ceiling thinking.

Amadou Diallo, what a name.

What a story. 

Imagine being a young Black immigrant migrating to this “Land of Opportunity” for a crack at a better life. Imagine having a late dinner and returning home ready to call it a night. Imagine being accosted by four plain-clothes officers for no other crime than existing in your Black skin. Imagine reaching for your wallet in the hopes of identifying yourself. Imagine being struck with 19 bullets as 22 more shoot past you before exploding into the brick and mortar facade of your apartment building behind you. Imagine 41 shots.

Truly imagine it. 

What man, what anything needed to be struck that many times to be put down. I only fell asleep that night after convincing myself the four pigs involved would rot under their respective jail cells.

But then “Police believed he was a serial rapist.”

“Police suspected he was a lookout for drug dealers.”

“Police thought his wallet was a handgun.”

Just like that, the foreign-born Bronxite was responsible for his own lynching. All four cops were acquitted, the city was forced to pay three million of a sixty-one million dollar suit, and Diallo became a martyr, in my life up until that time, the first since Jesus himself.

Now, if I sat down to write all of the names of the men and women disappeared or murdered by police since then, I’d fill a tome so heavy your God couldn’t lift it.

These days, I don’t listen to “good cop” arguments.

I don’t listen to victim blaming.

I don’t listen to white people still “confused” about how their system, with so many checks and balances, continues to fail it’s minority citizens when the answer to that lies in history.

The Ancient Lacedaemons, every Fall, would declare war on the Helots, their slave class that outnumbered them seven to one (according to Herodotus, the ancient Historian). They’d instruct members of what they called the Krypteia, to descend into the communities of the Helots and kill as many as they could with a focus on the biggest and strongest. Why? Well, in my opinion it was twofold; the first, so the Helots would never forget that despite their numbers they were the subjugated. The second was to establish a show of force so brutal in it’s execution that no Helot would dare to rise against them.

Why does this matter? Well, the Lacedaemons, better known today as Spartans, have been and continue today, to be lauded by humanity for their military excellence, ideas about justice, independence, willingness to put their country above themselves, and overall forward thinking  towards democracy in an age of Kings.

When 300, the movie glorifying the sacrifice of 300 Spartans, hit the silver screen, I cheered like an idiot, as did everyone else in the audience, when they cut down ancient Peoples of Color whose rich history I never bothered to uncover. Apart from Ephialtes- the hunchbacked traitor (whose hunchback is NEVER mentioned in historical accounts), I thought them glorious and virtuous men with virtuous intentions, not much different than “The Founding Fathers.”

But history repeats. And just like those Ancient Lacedaemons with their revolutionary government, the laws created to ensure the “rights of men” here in america have always been exclusionary. For as much as these laws help the subjugated classes, they may as well be ass paper; proving nothing more than a mirage made of the wispiest of smoke vapor. 

All men are created equal until “Great Societies” get involved; and checks and balances?

Ha! Go shit in a hat.

Unless the law was codifying non-whites as inferior, it wasn’t checking for us.

And balance? Please. 

This “Great Experiment” falls deeper in the red every year using the blood of my people as the ink in its ledger, and no one in any real position of power, with the ability to move nations has made any true attempt to balance the scales that blindfolded woman is holding, nor taken any steps to check how often she’s peaking beneath the veil.

So don’t talk to me about reform of a rotten police system; talk to me about tearing it down. Don’t talk to me about reforming prisons; talk to me about tearing them down. Don’t talk to me about the freedom of speech associated with “heroes” who raped, maimed, and murdered alongside their flowery speeches about “the rights of men.” 

Talk to me about tearing them down.

If this seems like Black bitterness, know that it’s in direct response to white apathy. Your surprise at the way my people are flatlined truly, truly does nothing, but grind my gears.

Because it is asinine to me that I first realized this truth at 14, had it reaffirmed ad interim to this day, and there are still those who “really didn’t know.” At this point, if you don’t, I believe it is truly because you don’t want to, and that’s fine. Just don’t talk to me about it.

Once I was 21 years old…

My son’s Grandfather told me, “I don’t want my daughter to date a black guy; all they do is steal, beat their women, and run out on their kids.”

The irony of his wife sitting there with a black eye wasn’t lost on me. Nor was the fact that this kind of animosity towards me and mine was a recurring theme where I grew up.

By the age of 21, nobody had more fights in my predominantly hispanic neighborhood than my brothers and I. 

Jackie vs. Melvin

Jody vs. Osiris

Ceasar vs. Joshua

Jackie vs. Memo

Jody vs. Saliva

Ceasar vs Joshua (the rematch!)

Jackie vs. EVERYBODY! (Deadpool would be proud)

Three “Cocolos” forced to prove that we belonged in a neighborhood our family had lived in since the 1970s to people who just arrived.

Nowadays, I look at those skirmishes and chalk them up to hard knocks, but to say it didn’t bother me would be a lie. I loved hispanic culture; the food, the sound of the language, the girls; all of it. I couldn’t undertand how people one or two shades lighter than me in some cases, three or four darker in others, could look down on me. 

But what does the child of an immigrant know about Black American history? What do they care to know past what we as a nation export to the world in regards to the Black experience here? If you’re not an athlete or entertainer? Nothing.

And today, I truly wonder if those who were “three or four shades darker,” the ones usually more hateful towards us than any one else,  acted that way because their skin made them targets of a burden they didn’t believe would be placed on their shoulders. But this is America. Here, we obsess over color, but if you press anyone to name some, we only ever give answers in two shades.

Today, whether Catherine’s pops likes it or not, we’re bound by blood, but I know factually he has no complaints. My son is his favorite human being in the world, but was that really what it took for him to dispel his beliefs? His attachment to his bigotry? His knowing that his grandchild is a little boy they will never confuse for anything other than a “Cocolo”? I don’t know.

I do know I’m not his enemy. And whether he thinks it’s only because of our shared paternalism for my son, or not, I know before my kid ever came screaming into this world, I’ve always considered the Hispanic people I’ve been fortunate enough to know and love in my lifetime, Mi gente.

And truly, even if I didn’t, trust me when I tell you America has, and she only ever obsesses over two colors. 

Once I was 28 Years Old…

My brother told me, “Mother fucker’s never loved us.” And for the first time, I didn’t call him a cynic. 

By now, I’d learned about redlining, corporate pay gaps, underfunding of social services in our neighborhoods, and the complex ways those in power explained away these ingrained injustices with coded language to keep white people scared of my people, and my people scared of their greatness.

I knew about double standards written into the american narrative; 

“The King of Pop - Paedophile!” “The King of Rock & Roll -  Liked them young!” 

I knew the names Till, and King, and Louima.

I knew disproportionately. The morbidity rate of my people’s children during childbirth, Rockefeller drug laws, voter suppression, income and gender inequality.

I knew Trayvon Martin was 17, would never see his next birthday, and the “Black Lives Matter” hashtag that was gaining popularity was so simple in it’s truth, it couldn’t be debated.

I knew enough.

I’d published an autobiography a year before, and reading it just 365 days later, felt my words on the “American Dream” were written by a stranger.

Anxiety set in. 

Insomnia too.

The number of times I called Jody, my brother, after a nightmare in which he was shot  was more than I’d ever called to say “hi.” The everyday machinations of my world became trivial.

How could I, a person who prided himself on his intelligence, not be able to figure out the why behind the fractures in the wall behind the curtain?

But I could. And I did. And my first inclination after gaining some real answers was to, of course, explain to people that we’re living in a hodgepodge of Dystopias. The class stratification of  A Brave New World, the surveillance state of 1984, the piggish greed of those in power and their exploitation of those who really make the day to day machinations of the world move, a la Animal Farm, and decisions based off  childish cliquishness, rather than what is actually good for the society as a whole in Lord of the Flies. Sure one could argue the last two aren’t technically dystopias, but both Boxer and Piggy would disagree.

And me, as Simon did in Lord of the Flies, and Cassandra before him in the Iliad, I screamed to anyone listening that things were getting worse.

But nobody listens to writers.

Nobody notices history repeats.

And the ones who truly do, say “wait.”

To which I say, No.

You wait.

You change.

You grow.

You help.

Or move out of the way so those who are willing and able, can.

I know. This year in review hasn’t really given you any juicy bits about me, so here are a few:

The death rattle of a friendship long soured.

White stupidity at the workplace and the bootlickers too stupid to realize if you have to kiss ass, you can’t possibly be kicking it.

A fresh new accusation of indecency with someone’s significant other.

Homelessness.

Joblessness.

The span of three months when I was painting my fingers green and purple, trying to remind myself constantly that the little things were worth sticking around for.

The return of Booster!

My literal run-in with a black bear. In short, I know why Apollo is on one knee. But the world is heavier than just my burdens.

Big Floyd won’t see another sunrise.

Breonna Taylor won’t either.

Most of the pigs involved will.

The “Great Experiment” is failing and closed off to the world because of it’s own arrogance.

“Capitalists” are upset at the unemployed for collecting more than they do in working wages, ignoring the obviously exploitative nature of their employers. Upset that these people aren’t willing to die from a pandemic for less than market value. I say capitalist ironically. 

Worker bees ain’t capitalist, they’re worker bees.

And all around the world people are seeing the america once hidden behind a mask of smug superiority stripped bare and found wanting.

So I feel my problems small in comparison. I feel the need to help. And I refuse to wait. 

Because I have just turned 35 years old.

If you think, truly think we’ve made progress, I need you to ask yourself what’s so different between what I’ve said here tonight, and what The Great James Baldwin said at the age of sixty in the 1980s:

"What is it you want me to reconcile myself to? I was born here almost sixty years ago. I'm not going to live another sixty years. You always told me it takes time. It has taken my father's time, my mother's time. My uncle's time. My brother's and sister's time. My niece's and my nephew's time.

How much time do you want for your...'progress'?"

And if you’d hurry up with your answer, that’d be great. Because soon I’ll be sixty years old.