There's Something About Buba?

Even after spending so much energy over just the last two years, judiciously documenting such a shamefully abundant season of extraordinarily bizarre racist atrocities occurring all of a sudden throughout the entire United States, still I was somewhat taken aback. Long after chattel slavery had ultimately come to an end, my Ancestors on Neal Street saw the world different that most people. They were aware that the Reconstruction had been betrayed simply because that idea kept being thrown up in their face. No longer a valued commodity like a shoe, or a horse, or a tree, these were bitter painful years for Black people. Most of the innocent Black victims of Jim Crow's Glory Days would see nothing even remotely resembling justice; only a bizarre bloodlust for Black life. Most Americans are aware of this history.

Oddly enough, the number of hate groups has suddenly enjoyed the most startling rise since the year 2000, all the while a whole new generation of voters was being uniquely serenaded into the political process and ultimately to the polls in order to elect for the very first time an African American President. Wasn't that something? Never shall I forget those long lines throughout the country on Election Day; nonetheless faced down by a determined electorate. Still, with this one I must admit that I was rather surprised.

Watching all of this unsolicited Jim Crow-era rage as it continues to reek with overworn images of the President of the United States casually being ceremoniously lynched in effigy, one quickly tires of seeing him casually over there abruptly lynched each week last autumn from some old sycamore tree somewhere in Bubba's backyard. Obama suddenly became Strange Fruit hanging from storefronts and even hanging in the city square on his way to the White House. Just how American was all of this? "Ain't nobody messing with them!"

Listening, while one man ran for president and ultimately received an unprecedented and alarming number of unsolicited death threats, and the national press decided to say very little about it, reminds me of the work that needs to be done. No doubt I get it; on the most basic level you must understand that racism is the psychopathology of projection. Because understand: "Ain't nobody messing with them!"

Still, rummaging through the last 24 months recalling such a barrage of absurdly juvenile however endless references to Black people suddenly being defined once more as ape-like and sub-human, has become evermore disheartening. This rather subconsciously violent supposition hurled back to the future from out of some bitterly painful past, is something that you somehow cannot fail to recall. It becomes an intergenerational discourse channeled through you, with America's future spoken through the agonizing witness of our Ancestors; each of which has its eye upon you. This is the burden that we all helplessly share of the American Dream.

Watching this nation all of a sudden forced to regurgitate some of the vilest aspects of its veiled macabre past, which has somehow through the language of tricknology skillfully rendered unspoken for all of these years, is like watching several recurring nightmares happening all at once, where pain and loss are like never-ending tornadoes within the macabre miserable holocaust of a hurricane. Many Katrina survivors today know exactly what I mean.Because its discourse is sits in a vat of detritus decades in denial, racism however has become a somewhat deformed creature, like a child that we all have kept hidden in the basement. Orphaned, of course, we all know that it is there, - "but we really not supposed to talk about it! However, just as there was a neat bureaucratic efficiency for apart-hate in America, for the Third Reich in Nazi Germany, and even for Hutu Power in Rwanda, so too there exist a vast catalogue of latent memories had on the flip-side of those painfully wrought years unrepressed but for the fear of reprisal left unspoken. Still, nothing would seem to be able to prepare me for what I was about to discover. On one particular sunny afternoon one particular memory jettisoned from out of my youth hit me so very hard on the head simply because it arrived on a much more personal level.
You see, at 14 years old I must admit that I was a rather nerdy-bookish type of child. By that age, I was already quite an avid reader.

While my teachers were assigning to us Mark Twain (not that I haven't always admired him), I was already reading Thus Spoke Zarathustra (Neithze) and From Shakespeare to Existentialism (Kaufmann). My mind seemed to be electrically charged with a wild sense of inquisitiveness and excitement 24/7. However truth be told, early on books had become my solace as a natural escape from the bitter environment of an endlessly contentious and often violent broken home. On more than one occasion, my desire to escape to the world of books actually found me taking instant flight in the very wee hours of the morning stealing-away from Long Island; on a train bound for New York City. I must have run away from home more than a dozen times, often with my passing gone completely unnoticed, only to ultimately find myself inside of the immense wonderful world of Barnes and Noble Booksellers in downtown Manhattan. This was my Timbuktu.At the time, there was no other store like it upon the planet. A great flood of excitement would always seemed to immediately lift me off of my feet, rushing over me and carrying me off on a cloud every single time that I stood in front of that colossal brick-and-mortar storefront on the corner of 18th Street. It was then, and just may still be today the largest bookstore in the entire world. Nevertheless, for endless hours, throughout my derelict school day, I would wander through endless rows of books that generously gave up of their knowledge for free to anyone whose mind seemed thirsty enough to take a sojourn through all of the knowledge that actually existed within the big busy world outside the front door. No doubt, I wanted to read them all.

This was my Timbuktu, and it was like Disney World to me. Over the years, I have watched Barnes and Nobel grow from a once cherished however little known secret, into a great nation-wide colossus, only to quickly emerge as a deft competitive online bookseller as well. Even when other more convenient options have surrounded me, I have often simply played to my heart and given up my money to the brand that still holds some of the fondest memories of my miss-spent youth. Unfortunately though, that love of mine has been squandered on the cheap and I am a fan no more. Here is why:Not long ago, a friend of mine sent me an email. It showed the window display of a Barnes and Noble Store in Coral Gables Florida. The theme that day was all about the President and Mrs. Obama. Neatly arrayed were several topical books and magazines that all featured the most endearing images of Barrack and Michelle along with the first of the Presidents two celebrated bestsellers. Dreams From My Father stood proudly in the background. But then everything got a little weird. Right smack in the middle of this display, obviously put there with some kind of devotion, leaving no doubt about its reference to legendary racist symbolism was a book titled "Monkeys: A Captivating Look At These Fascinating Animals" featuring a chimp on the cover.

This occurred during a time when the New York Post "monkey" controversy was still fresh from the fire and still quite hot in everyone's mind. Thus, the intent was evermore clear. To their credit, after the story and the image went viral online, Leonard Riggio http://www.inquisitr.com/19550/barnes-and-noble-obama-display/ , the founder and chairman of Barnes and Noble put out a statement blaming it on a phantom customer saying: "This malicious and despicable act is nothing short of a hate crime, which should be punishable under federal statutes." Now without a doubt, I must admit that this was indeed a rather noble gesture on his part. It actually did go much further in sheer opprobrium than most others have even during the most recent past. Nonetheless, for me Barnes and Noble still remains ironically a somewhat deeply emotional purchasing choice, but now on the flip-side of all of that the love is gone. I am an adult now. There are just far too many other choices out there. Why does Bubba seem to find glee in comparing the President to a monkey? Ain't nobody messing with him! What makes Bubba shoot a 92-year-old grandmother in her very own home, when he should be the one protecting her most? And then why would Bubba try to make her actually look like some kind of a drug dealing Annie Oakley who somehow went and got her gun? We could easily answer all of these questions if only Neal Street could talk!