Forgot to share this the other day:
Last Saturday, I went to a high school band competition with the rest of my family. My sister and brother are very talented musically; my brother is rated as the #1 highschool bass guitarist in the state of Illinois, and my sister is the Lead Drum Major for a 150 member marching band. This is not central to the story, but I felt like sharing.
Anyway, the marching band has been attending this competition for the last three years. Its in Oblong Illinois. Apparently the band has amassed a bit of a following, as our buses were met by several greeting parties, and people asking if we had t-shirts and other items with the school name on it for them to wave while we played.
Now, the past few years our school has attended, they've always placed sort of middle of the pack, even though they've received several specialty awards and admissions that we were in fact the best band there. But the band director, and the band, thought nothing of it. Just needed more practice, do better next year, the standard Ra-Ra speeches.
But something about this year just... felt different. There was more tension. Despite a larger following, a better performance, and more boisterous cheers, the band placed last or near last in every category. The kids were hurt. Stunned. They felt robbed. They knew they were better. The people knew they were better. The other bands knew they were better. So what happened then?
...Then the reports started to come in.
"Mr. Moore," that's my father, I don't think I've reached 'Mister' status quite yet, "Mr. Moore, did you hear what Khalil heard when he was going to the bathroom?"
"No, what'd Khalil hear."
"He heard one of the Oblong kids say 'Man, our grown-ups are really being harsh with the niggers this year.' Honest to god!"
"...Is that right. Well, if you hear anything else like that, you be sure to tell me. And tell the rest the same thing."
I could see the rage begin to build in the old man. He's very lightly complexed, my grandmother and grandfather were both each half-white. So when he gets angry, and I mean really angry, he turns a bright, bright red. Exhibit the smiley-face as an example:
This isn't just anger, or indignation, this is rage. A rage born from years of enduring prejudice and racism. Of seeing his have the shit near kicked out of him by the police, and having to take it for fear of his wife and children being harmed. Of being in race riots, and protests. Of being arrested, and beaten, and denied purely because of his heritage. This rage was all the more chaotic, all the more frothing, because it was happening to his children. You NEVER say, or do, anything against Clifton Earl Moore Sr.'s children, or those within his care.
My mother had to talk him down, sometimes she's the only one that can, but it was still there. Frothing just under the surface. Waiting, needing, *anticipating* an opportunity to explode so that righteous black fury could rule the day.
...Then the next straw floated in.
"Cliff," again my father this time, I'm still Lil' Cliff or Cliff Jr. in most circles, "Cliff, did you overhear what Magda heard?"
"I haven't heard a thing. What happened?"
"Magda said that she heard a couple of the Oblong parents joking behind her. They kept saying, 'Well, I ain't surprised they can bang the hell out of them drums, but I guarantee they're dumb as shit.'"
Aww... Goddamn, the Red Hulk is coming to town, and woe unto yon whitey what come across his path. Now he goes into his Sarge-mode.
"Gather all the kids in, and tell them to stick around the buses. If they need to go to the concession stand, or the bathrooms, tell them to go in groups, and/or have adults with them. We gonna leave this motherfucker soon, before I murder me a honkey."
Well... Atleast he kept it civil. And if you knew my father , you'd know that to be civil.
But even all of the preceding isn't the main thrust of my writing. No... Its what occured a little bit later...
About five junior high kids approached our group. They were members of the band, and had performed in a junior competition. They were the first black people we'd seen the entire time we'd been down there. You could tell they were timid, and apprehensive, but there was something they had to do.
"Uh... H-hi. Um... Well, we're like the only black kids down here... W-well, we're not fully black, we're all mixed, and some of us aren't really black, but like indian and I'm part thai, but anyway... We were wondering if you could... Well, this is stupid, and we'd understand if you said no, but could you just... Talk to us? Please?"
We stayed longer because of these kids. Two hours in fact. They told us about the town, and how racist it was, and that there were still members of the KKK down there. They talked about what they liked, and what they didn't. They asked us how we played so well, and how we danced. Who were our favorite artists? Foods? Everything.
All they wanted was to talk. If nothing more than to associate with people who were like them, or some how a part of them. To see if what their town told them, or what their parents told them, or what the world was telling them, or whoever the fuck was telling them, were true. You could tell that initially, they were waiting for signs of our "blackness". Something wild, and spontaneous. Something vicious and feral. Something lazy, and of no consequence. Something to be loathed and feared.
But more so, they were seeking a validation of sorts. An affirmation that ALL of what they were was beautiful. That all of them was musical, and intelligent. That it was their whole that defined them, instead of one half or the other. The oldest child among them was 14. They were beginning the stage in their evolution where they explored and defined who they were as individuals. And they were scared of what was in their blood, because of how monstrous they were told it was.
We exchanged names, and phone numbers. Home addresses as well as electronic ones. Some asked for autographs. When we left, those kids ran after our busses, waving furiously, like we were the fucking Beetles leaving town.
And what I thought, as we sped away for more hospitable climes, was: I prayed that these kids never faltered.
As a minority, especially one of a mixed background, I think we're all confronted with that moment, or moments as the case may be, where we have the chance to falter. To fall into an oblivion of hating ourselves, or hating one half our heritage or the other. Or hating those that hated us. I see it in my parents. I saw it in my grandparents. And sometimes I see it in myself.
I want those kids to love themselves. To feel beautiful. To not hate those that oppress them. Because if they can do that, if just one of them can do that, then I've made a difference. I've done something that nears immortality.
And more so, if they can do it, then I can do it too.
Last Saturday, I went to a high school band competition with the rest of my family. My sister and brother are very talented musically; my brother is rated as the #1 highschool bass guitarist in the state of Illinois, and my sister is the Lead Drum Major for a 150 member marching band. This is not central to the story, but I felt like sharing.
Anyway, the marching band has been attending this competition for the last three years. Its in Oblong Illinois. Apparently the band has amassed a bit of a following, as our buses were met by several greeting parties, and people asking if we had t-shirts and other items with the school name on it for them to wave while we played.
Now, the past few years our school has attended, they've always placed sort of middle of the pack, even though they've received several specialty awards and admissions that we were in fact the best band there. But the band director, and the band, thought nothing of it. Just needed more practice, do better next year, the standard Ra-Ra speeches.
But something about this year just... felt different. There was more tension. Despite a larger following, a better performance, and more boisterous cheers, the band placed last or near last in every category. The kids were hurt. Stunned. They felt robbed. They knew they were better. The people knew they were better. The other bands knew they were better. So what happened then?
...Then the reports started to come in.
"Mr. Moore," that's my father, I don't think I've reached 'Mister' status quite yet, "Mr. Moore, did you hear what Khalil heard when he was going to the bathroom?"
"No, what'd Khalil hear."
"He heard one of the Oblong kids say 'Man, our grown-ups are really being harsh with the niggers this year.' Honest to god!"
"...Is that right. Well, if you hear anything else like that, you be sure to tell me. And tell the rest the same thing."
I could see the rage begin to build in the old man. He's very lightly complexed, my grandmother and grandfather were both each half-white. So when he gets angry, and I mean really angry, he turns a bright, bright red. Exhibit the smiley-face as an example:
This isn't just anger, or indignation, this is rage. A rage born from years of enduring prejudice and racism. Of seeing his have the shit near kicked out of him by the police, and having to take it for fear of his wife and children being harmed. Of being in race riots, and protests. Of being arrested, and beaten, and denied purely because of his heritage. This rage was all the more chaotic, all the more frothing, because it was happening to his children. You NEVER say, or do, anything against Clifton Earl Moore Sr.'s children, or those within his care.
My mother had to talk him down, sometimes she's the only one that can, but it was still there. Frothing just under the surface. Waiting, needing, *anticipating* an opportunity to explode so that righteous black fury could rule the day.
...Then the next straw floated in.
"Cliff," again my father this time, I'm still Lil' Cliff or Cliff Jr. in most circles, "Cliff, did you overhear what Magda heard?"
"I haven't heard a thing. What happened?"
"Magda said that she heard a couple of the Oblong parents joking behind her. They kept saying, 'Well, I ain't surprised they can bang the hell out of them drums, but I guarantee they're dumb as shit.'"
Aww... Goddamn, the Red Hulk is coming to town, and woe unto yon whitey what come across his path. Now he goes into his Sarge-mode.
"Gather all the kids in, and tell them to stick around the buses. If they need to go to the concession stand, or the bathrooms, tell them to go in groups, and/or have adults with them. We gonna leave this motherfucker soon, before I murder me a honkey."
Well... Atleast he kept it civil. And if you knew my father , you'd know that to be civil.
But even all of the preceding isn't the main thrust of my writing. No... Its what occured a little bit later...
About five junior high kids approached our group. They were members of the band, and had performed in a junior competition. They were the first black people we'd seen the entire time we'd been down there. You could tell they were timid, and apprehensive, but there was something they had to do.
"Uh... H-hi. Um... Well, we're like the only black kids down here... W-well, we're not fully black, we're all mixed, and some of us aren't really black, but like indian and I'm part thai, but anyway... We were wondering if you could... Well, this is stupid, and we'd understand if you said no, but could you just... Talk to us? Please?"
We stayed longer because of these kids. Two hours in fact. They told us about the town, and how racist it was, and that there were still members of the KKK down there. They talked about what they liked, and what they didn't. They asked us how we played so well, and how we danced. Who were our favorite artists? Foods? Everything.
All they wanted was to talk. If nothing more than to associate with people who were like them, or some how a part of them. To see if what their town told them, or what their parents told them, or what the world was telling them, or whoever the fuck was telling them, were true. You could tell that initially, they were waiting for signs of our "blackness". Something wild, and spontaneous. Something vicious and feral. Something lazy, and of no consequence. Something to be loathed and feared.
But more so, they were seeking a validation of sorts. An affirmation that ALL of what they were was beautiful. That all of them was musical, and intelligent. That it was their whole that defined them, instead of one half or the other. The oldest child among them was 14. They were beginning the stage in their evolution where they explored and defined who they were as individuals. And they were scared of what was in their blood, because of how monstrous they were told it was.
We exchanged names, and phone numbers. Home addresses as well as electronic ones. Some asked for autographs. When we left, those kids ran after our busses, waving furiously, like we were the fucking Beetles leaving town.
And what I thought, as we sped away for more hospitable climes, was: I prayed that these kids never faltered.
As a minority, especially one of a mixed background, I think we're all confronted with that moment, or moments as the case may be, where we have the chance to falter. To fall into an oblivion of hating ourselves, or hating one half our heritage or the other. Or hating those that hated us. I see it in my parents. I saw it in my grandparents. And sometimes I see it in myself.
I want those kids to love themselves. To feel beautiful. To not hate those that oppress them. Because if they can do that, if just one of them can do that, then I've made a difference. I've done something that nears immortality.
And more so, if they can do it, then I can do it too.
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Anyway (and I guess I'll have to post this again on the thread since you're not the only one who asked), yeah, douching with Coke is one of those idiotic myths that you probably never heard about because you were never a middle- or high-school girl.
The idea is that you can't get pregnant if you douche with Coke right after sex because Coke kills the sperm. This is actually true if you do it in a test tube (no shit, Coke'll kill anything), but it does not work if attempted on actual people. And there are actual high-school girls who get pregnant because they are apparently too fucking stupid to figure this out, much to the chagrin and frustration of people who work with them. This myth has been around since at least the '70s. Somehow, people still believe it today.
I use the Coke-douche comparison for all incredibly moronic things that people believe because other people tell it to them, but I don't know that it's ever been spread on the Internet. A better comparison would probably be all those bogus penis-enlargement devices, but for obvious reasons I don't know too much about those.
I had something else I was going to say but the Headache Monster just ate it. Meh. Well, you'll get more journal spam as soon as I can remember what the hell it was.