Black Book Purge

View fullsize

Thanks to the Mulatto Vanguard’s latest lecture on starting our own Blue Vein Society, I’ve decided it’s time to gather and dispose of most of my black books unless they mention something remotely positive about mulattos or hold personal significance that I can relate to or have experienced. I haven’t determined how or where I’ll purge this collection, and I haven’t mentioned it to my wife yet because I’m sure that, since she’s African-American but doesn’t read much anymore, she’ll insist I keep most of them, especially if they’re by female writers.

And yes, I’ll hate to see some of them go: hard copies with memorable, uplifting words or those with a militant perspective I once may have agreed with. Speaking of perspectives, since black people - primarily African Americans - no longer consider mulatto males to be black unless they fit neatly into an agenda, I can’t rely on militant writings as I did during my indoctrination period in the mid-1990s. A case in point is the Nation of Islam, which still refers to biracial men as “half-original,” meaning the black side is the original man and the white side is non-original, described as “a skunk of the planet Earth.” How do I know this? Twenty-eight years ago, I was part of their organization. They accepted my mixed heritage only to pad their ranks and sell newspapers, but I was never regarded as a genuine “Asiatic black man.” A deadbeat male straight out of prison would be welcomed with open arms if he had the right complexion, but not someone with my looks. It reminds me of a scene from the mafia film “Goodfellas,” where a mob soldier could only become a made man if his bloodline were entirely Italian. The mobsters who happened to be half-Irish and half-Italian could never be made men; it's like some ancient code based on trust. I believe Chinese Tong societies operate on the same principle, where only those who are 100% Chinese can be trusted. It’s all about bloodlines. So, my NOI books may also be discarded. In some ways, parting with them saddens me because of their religious significance and the belief that one day, black people will inherit the planet. But where does that leave me, us, the mulattos? I’m not interested in being part of or supporting any group that perceives me as merely half a human being.

Now that I’ve decided which books to dispose of, I’ll likely have to prepare for the inevitable question: “Why are you getting rid of these?” Possible answers might include: “Because I have too many of them,” “They no longer mean anything to me,” “I have duplicates of all of them,” or " I want to share them with a new generation.” The last answer might be the best, and it’s partly true. Why not try to share them with a new generation of students and so-called people of color who may have heard about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., the civil rights movement, black female novelists, and possibly even the Autobiography of Malcolm X?

Getting back to what I should do with them, I could sell them, give them away, donate them, or burn them. Unfortunately, book burning is illegal in most states unless someone does it in their backyard or business. I could shred them, but that would take too long, ripping off the covers and tearing pages out at the roots, five or six at a time, and watching them transform into confetti. Before I forget, the first thing I need to do is go through each book to ensure I haven’t added any footnotes that people might find offensive, especially if Jews or homosexuals are mentioned. I also need to double-check that my name is nowhere to be seen, a habit from my school days when our names had to be written in the top left inside corner of a textbook in case it got lost. Additionally, I’ll need to remove receipts, dollar bills, forgotten lottery tickets, or anything else used as bookmarks. I mustn’t reveal my identity, especially if the books are considered controversial, such as those by the writings of Minister Louis Farrakhan or Elijah Muhammad.

I might keep certain books if they focus on health and nutrition. The NOI has a pair entitled “How to Eat to Live I & II.” A few that might be purged discuss “passing,” a term popularized during the Harlem Renaissance that has recently resurfaced due to the rise of colorism within the African American community. Passing is often portrayed negatively, describing a light-complexioned black or mulatto person whose skin and features allow them to infiltrate white society undetected. Rather than recognizing passing as a necessary survival tactic, especially during the Jim Crow segregation era, many contemporary black people view it as an indication that someone either doesn’t wish to identify as black or has chosen to forsake the black community by presenting themselves as white. Frequently, in literature, we mulattoes are depicted as “tragic,” especially our women, with endings where characters either commit suicide or die in poverty. Those with darker skin often feel envious of us, as if the skin color we inherited is somehow our fault. The book purge is just the beginning. Eventually, I may let go of certain types of black music I used to play on my guitar and explore other styles and influences.

How would a new Blue Vein Society be established? Physical clubs or organizations requiring a specific countenance for membership would likely face accusations of discrimination. We couldn’t facilitate it via YouTube or other online platforms, as too many infiltrators and stalkers could join, pretending to be mulatto. Perhaps the new society will be organized through private online video chats like Zoom, where participants must show their faces and prove they are genuine mulattos through verified DNA testing. Additionally, we’d need to exercise caution because many mulattos have pledged allegiance to the Bantus, particularly mulatto women, who often bear children for a Bantu in exchange for acceptance into the black community.

To be continued…

Domesticated Cats

View fullsize

Ms. V. seemed disappointed that nearly two months had passed without a word from my wife or me. We met Ms. V. and her husband, Mr. J, at a wedding in 2024, and since then, we’ve been getting together semi-regularly for dinner dates. There must not be many good eateries in the Bronx, where they live, since they always insist on coming downtown to our area in Harlem or the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Last night at the Ethiopian restaurant, Ms. V. asked if I was a recluse, and I replied that I wasn't; I’m more like a domesticated cat. “What’s the difference?” she asked with a brief smile. I laughed as she rolled her eyes, grew serious, and moved closer, waiting for my answer. Fortunately, I was rescued by our waitress, who arrived just in time, saving me from having to explain what a domesticated cat is. I didn’t tell her, but I might have to when she asks the same question next time.

After the waiter took our orders, V. kept waiting for my response. “Not even a text, an email, or a phone call in over three months,” she said. “Don’t you two like us anymore?”

So, what is a domesticated cat besides a funny-sounding expression? It’s a routine of old habits repeated daily, year after year. It’s being comfortable with the same magazines on the coffee table, the same TV shows on cable, the same thin layer of dust on the windowsills, and the same smells wafting from the turtle’s tank and the garbage piled up outside our apartment building, waiting to be picked up by the sanitation department. It’s the same bottles of wine on the foyer table next to the coffee maker and the blender. It’s the panic that sets in when someone, usually a relative from out of town, calls unexpectedly, catching us off guard and asking if they can stop by later for a visit. The panic arises when my wife and I realize the house is a wreck, and we can’t wait until Sunday to straighten up; it must be done before we hear the buzzer downstairs and the high heels click-clacking down the hall to our apartment. Then our domesticated cat selves shift into explanation and apology mode: “Sorry about the mess; we weren’t expecting company.”

Our guests, Natasha and Reenie, are a couple of hard-core followers of the (FBA) Foundational Black American Slave movement and two of my least favorite people from my wife’s side of the family who constantly brag about their grandkids and their spacious new homes in the Atlanta suburbs. They scrutinize the smallness of our New York City apartment, with its minimal artwork, cramped kitchen, and dilapidated bookcases. We engage in small talk while I glance at the clock. I should have mopped last night, but procrastination goes hand in hand with a domesticated lifestyle. Did we remember to hide the prescription pill bottles in the bathroom? Nosy people like them always seem to check that out for some reason. You’ll never guess what I saw in their bathroom, lying there in plain view: prescription pills for… I didn’t know they were struggling with …

Tick, tock, tick, the clock keeps ticking away; when will they leave? I’m losing my afternoon energy and usually grab a catnap around this time. My domesticated cat self shifts into gracious host mode. “Have a seat. Would you like a drink or something to eat? If we had known you were coming, we would have prepared one of our signature dishes: my mushroom pasta or Pam’s Spanish tortilla. How about some Manchego cheese and crackers?

I turn on the TV, opting for something dull like golf or tennis—nothing engaging, like a blockbuster film or a news tragedy, such as a plane crash, that would entice them to settle down on the couch and watch with us.

And yet, despite all the time they’ve taken from our domesticated day, neither has mentioned our retirement, the autographed copies of my book I mailed to them last year, or music, even though my guitar sits prominently on the stand beside the TV. No one asks, “Hey, Uncle Mike, will you play a song for us?”

Meanwhile, we’ve had to endure their long-winded tales of suburban life: “Our new house is so cozy; the neighbors are wonderful, the schools are excellent, and we’re going to plant a new garden next summer.” I stand in front of our plants. I forgot to water them, and now they’re dry and wilted. I hope they didn’t notice. It’s noisy outside, with a bus stop directly in front of our building, and there’s a fire station and a hospital down the street, so the sirens blare day and night. It's not like those peaceful communities down south that we’ve heard about nonstop for the last two hours. “Well,” we say in unison as I glance at the clock again. The sun’s gone down. That’s the signal; they finally got it. “Thanks for stopping by.” We don’t mean it; we’re relieved they're finally leaving. “Don’t be a stranger,” they say. “Our doors are always open.” As if we’re going to jump on a plane and head down south. The only southern destination we’ll visit anytime soon is Atlantic City for a few nights of gambling!

The Mystery of Jack's Ashes

View fullsize

Image of “Ashtray. a jar overflowing with ash and smoked cigarette butts” by hayley.marie.royal is licensed under CC BY-NC 2.0

It saddened me to hear that a good acquaintance, Jack Pfieffer, passed away on May 7th, 2024, in the middle of the night and was discovered by his teenage daughter, Nkoofi, the following day. Later that evening, Jack's best friend, Ricky, rang my wife and told her the bad news.

On Sunday afternoon, I ran into a neighbor, Ms. Salem, who told me that Nkoofi and Jack's son, Klaus, had started a GoFundMe page and raised nearly $15K, which I thought was strange because Jack never appeared hard up for cash. He owned a successful bar/restaurant for ten years and worked on Wall Street before that. Perhaps they needed the money to bring his relatives from Germany and Africa to America.

My wife and I don't know Nkoofi well, but we remember her as a snotty biracial child who ignored anybody or anything black. Yet, around whites, she was always smiling and polite, showing off her latest toy and letting them pat her head like a cute little pet monkey. When I ran into her last summer at a friend's outdoor birthday party, I hoped she had changed, and since we're both biracial, perhaps we might share some camaraderie, but that wasn't the case. Nkoofi gawked at me as if I were an insect, and I know why: As a biracial, light-skinned female, she's used to being the center of attention wherever she goes, especially in the black community. Biracial males, like myself, pose a threat to her skin color uniqueness.

I learned from the WhatsApp invitation that Jack was born Jurgen Pfieffer in Mannheim, Germany. I wonder where the name Jack came from? Maybe I'll be able to find out at the service scheduled for June 5th. Speaking of the memorial, everyone is texting back and forth on a newly created message thread, wondering and worrying about where Nkoofi will live. Will it be with Ricky, Jack's gay black friend, or maybe Jack's white son, Klaus, who lives in California? Where will she finish her last year of high school? Will she move to Germany and stay with Jack's relatives or return to Africa, her birthplace, where her mother still lives? And wouldn't that be an interesting wake-up call for the teenage girl who's spent her entire life ignoring non-white people to suddenly end up on the African continent surrounded by nothing but dark-skinned inhabitants? Whatever happens, I couldn’t care less because, after Jack's funeral/memorial, I'll probably never see her again.

But let me not get too far ahead of myself. In November 2022, Jack sent me a PDF copy of his untitled memoir. He included a note: Hi Mike, Here it is. I'm nervous; I never shared this with anyone. Curious to learn what you think. See you soon. Jack. I read the 120-page memoir, which described, among other things, Jack’s Protestant upbringing in Germany and his first youthful trek at 16 when he and a neighborhood friend embarked on a 250-mile bicycle trip to Paris. Jack journeyed to Ireland, Australia, Canada, East Timor, Japan, Malaysia, South Africa, and Nigeria as an adult, detailing his adventures and occasional misadventures with fellow travelers. He eventually arrived in NYC to pursue a career on Wall Street.

Jack asked me to be “brutally honest about his writing.” I told him it was a remarkable story, but style-wise, it read more like a travel diary than a memoir because he didn't reveal any personal details about his close friends or family. I said it might be a good idea to reconsider because readers would be interested in his life as a German father with a biracial son and daughter. In fact, at his birthday party back in April, Jack took me aside and said he'd been seriously thinking about adding more info into the memoir, including intimate details about his children and his relationships. Unfortunately, his time ran out before he could begin the rewrite. 

People will want to say kind words about Jack at the memorial, and I've thought about bringing up his memoir. After all, he didn't say it was in confidence or not to tell anyone else about it; he only said I was the first person he'd shown it to. Maybe I'll mention something to Ricky, who will undoubtedly react with a gay hissy fit since Jack hadn't confided in him, or he won't be able to control his desire to gossip— “Hey, did anyone know Jack wrote a memoir? I didn't know that. Has it been published?” But after talking with my wife, I decided to only discuss the memoir with Jack's son, Klaus.

My wife had family obligations on June 5th, so I went to Jack's memorial alone. The location was on W. 23rd Street between 5th and 6th Avenue in Manhattan, on the 10th floor of some office building. When I arrived, I ran into one of Jack's former business colleagues, Thomas Adibisi, who accidentally knocked a painting off the wall while walking up the stairs, which landed on my shoulder and caused a minor abrasion. No big deal, no blood, but it could have been worse. Not a good omen for what was to come later. The catered food was decent – some sushi, veggies, dip, and other finger food like carrot and celery sticks, chicken nuggets, and beer and wine to wash it all down. In the back of the crowded room was a small table set up as a memorial for Jack, covered in photos of him from different periods of his life, and in the center, a walnut box filled with his ashes. Little did I realize how much chaos that cremation box would cause.

As usual, in these mixed company NYC social gatherings, I couldn't tell who was straight or gay because Jack had hung out with both while alive. His dark-skinned black acquaintances all seemed to huddle together, including five attractive women with shaved heads wearing Africa-shaped earrings who wanted their presence to be known but were cautious with whom they spoke. They eyeballed me suspiciously but said nothing. One short negro, probably gay, wearing a checkered green sports jacket, alligator shoes, khaki pants, and a summer-straw pork pie hat, kept staring at me, sizing me up like he wanted to say something but never did. He reminded me of those old negroes who came from old negro money—a Strivers' Row negro, lighter skinned than most but not biracial like myself. The only people who gladly talked to me were Jack's white friends I'd met at parties or local bars watching English Premiere League football. When I asked one of them how Jurgen became Jack, he said, “Jurgen wasn't crazy about his birth name.” Mystery solved, and I'm not surprised. Over the years, I've met many people who seemed ashamed or embarrassed to reveal their German ancestry.

Glued to a plastic chair in the corner sat this gnarled, rail-thin Jewish woman I'd met in April at Jack's birthday party, who proclaimed she was married to a successful black man in Harlem for many years until he died in 2018. Boo hoo. My hair was different last time, but she knew who I was. She looked at me, and I at her, but neither initiated a conversation. I don't think she ever forgave me for the political views I expressed at the party when I stated that Germany and Japan should be allowed to rearm and all European governments need to halt the flow of immigrants into their countries before it’s too late. I could only imagine what she thought—Fucking Nazi! When I sat down later with a small plate of food, the bougie Strivers' Row negro grabbed a seat behind me, although there were plenty of chairs elsewhere. But that's what they do, these queers. All they think about is their next sexual conquest, but first, they must stalk their prey, inhale their scent, eavesdrop on their conversations, and, most importantly, their politics.

Besides wanting to pay my respects to Jack, I went to the memorial to seek out his older son, Klaus, and let him know about his father's unfinished memoir. When I finally got a minute of his time, I introduced myself and asked if he knew that his father had written a travel memoir. Klaus had no idea and seemed genuinely surprised. Anyway, I didn't want to take up too much of his time, so he gave me his email address, and I promised to send him the pdf file of the book. I didn't mention the memoir to his other son, the biracial one, or Nkoofi. I figured Klaus could tell them after the memorial.

Around 6:30, a red-haired woman in her late thirties who must have been in charge grabbed the mic from the DJ and asked for everyone's attention to say that the memorial would have to end promptly at seven. I'd seen her somewhere, maybe at one of Ricky’s parties. She wore a tight-fitting white dress, which fit her figure nicely, although she would have looked much better had she dropped about fifteen pounds. Her shoulder-length mane was beautiful and hair-sprayed to perfection.

Afterward, an intoxicated Ricky, who loves to grandstand, sang a tribute song to Jack— “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” or some other tired negro spiritual - while clumsily trying to balance a glass of white wine in his left hand. Applause, Applause, Bravo! Then, the redhead made a final announcement: “Ricky has graciously invited everyone to his apartment in Harlem to celebrate Jack's life.” She repeated the address several times because people were getting drunk and ignoring her.

I said my goodbyes, rushed home and told my wife I was heading to Ricky’s for an after-party. On the way, I picked up a couple of bottles of Carnivor Zinfandel because I had bragged to a married couple from Jamaica about this wine and wanted them to try it. Besides, Ricky always buys the cheapest swill available—$4 bottles from supermarkets and other places. When I arrived at Ricky’s, there were a dozen or so people, but none of Jack's family. I wasn't surprised. It was the same old crew, including a few Bundesliga football fans and several of those bald African negresses from the memorial who continued to look upon me, the biracial man, with disdain.

Also, Ricky’s apartment was an absolute sauna. People were sweating like hogs, and he laughed it off, saying, “I have several air conditioners in my closets, but I just haven't gotten around to installing them yet, ha, ha.” He had a large overhead ceiling fan above the dining room table, and some of his guests crowded in there for relief. They all looked like they were about to hold a séance or something in the eerie glow of Ricky’s old but spacious apartment.

Thirty minutes later, I heard someone downstairs ringing the buzzer repeatedly. Suddenly, the red-haired woman from Jack's memorial stormed into the apartment and proceeded down the long hallway, her high heels click-clacking loudly on Ricky’s hardwood floors. She entered the living room where six or seven black women sat and, in a disrespectful, accusatory tone, demanded to know who took Jack’s ashes— “Where are they? Who grabbed them? They were in a green leather pouch.” One of the black women told her to chill out and explain. This had to be a sick joke, I thought. Surely, Jack's immediate family would have wanted his ashes returned to Germany after the memorial.

Well, something went wrong, and the ashes had disappeared. I overheard someone saying that Jack’s ashes and trays of leftovers destined for Ricky’s apartment ended up in the back seat of a cab, which nobody could locate. Red began to sob uncontrollably; black eyeliner oozed down her face onto her freckles while her lipstick smeared into a contorted crimson frown. Some whites and a few negresses tried to comfort and reassure Red that everything would be okay and they would get to the bottom of the situation. Then Ricky, in his usual gay drama queen fashion, pranced into the dining room and announced that the party was over. “Everybody out!” he screamed. After that, all hell broke loose because two of the black women accused by Red were not ready to let her off the hook so quickly. One of them, named Charlene, jumped in Red’s face and demanded to know why “this fucking white bitch automatically assumed someone black stole Jack’s ashes.” It became an unfortunate racial incident because Red wouldn’t apologize and hadn't accused or questioned anyone white.

Once outside, Charlene and one of the bald negresses who defended Red nearly came to blows. Both were so drunk they could barely stand up. Eventually, the negress left with some Irish guy named Conor while shouting obscenities down the block. As I attempted to cross the street to escape the madness, Charlene begged me to walk with her to the nearest subway station because she didn't know the city too well. I agreed. As we approached Lenox Avenue, she kept asking if I was a cop. “Do I look like a cop?” I said, “do you see a badge?” To prove she wasn't carrying drugs or a weapon, she twice dumped the contents of her purse on the ground while people stared at us in disbelief. I left her on her knees, scooping up all the crap scattered on the sidewalk. Charlene was a fucking nutcase.

It took me several days to recover emotionally from the incident. What started as a celebration and remembrance of Jurgen 'Jack' Pfieffer’s life turned into a despicable clusterfuck. I will never set foot in Ricky’s house or associate with any of his lunatic friends again. Life's too short for all of this gay drama and ghetto bullshit.

Regarding Jack's ashes, I hope they are recovered soon and returned intact to his family.

RIP Jack Phieffer.

Honey-Colored

View fullsize

“African Bees Like Honey” by austinevan is licensed under CC BY 2.0

Rule #4 - If going on a blind date, be suspicious if a black woman describes herself as “honey-colored.” And by all means, be specific about your appearance to avoid confusion or misunderstanding.

Back in the summer of 1995, I was full-fledged into my Afrocentric phase and wanted to date a black woman. Scouring the classified section of the Village Voice newspaper, I came across an ad that read: “Single African-American female, medium height, honey-colored, looking for African-American man for casual relationship, friends first, but could lead to romance.” I contacted her, and we chatted briefly. She asked me about my appearance, and I described myself as tall, brown-skinned (I had a summer tan), with hazel eyes. So far, so good, until we met in person.

For starters, she was not medium height but short—no big deal. Immediately, my presence startled her. “You’re not brown-skinned; you're damn near white,” she said. Man, that hurt. So, I told her, “Taneesha, you’re not exactly what I...” Before I could finish, she hiked up her skirt, thrust out her left thigh, and said, “See, honey-colored!” Perhaps she was referring to the darker honey varietals, such as Manuka or Chestnut, or maybe I needed to have my eyes examined because her skin wasn’t even close to honey-colored. This woman was black, jet black, blacker than a black velvet petunia; so black, all I could see were the whites of her eyes and the grimace from her flawless white teeth.

We entered the restaurant and ordered drinks. An uncomfortable silence lingered between us while she glanced up at me several times over her menu with a look of disdain. And then, out of nowhere, she said, “So, what are you going to order, clams on the half shell? Aint that what white people eat?” This was turning into the date from hell.

Fortunately, I was rescued by someone she knew. I’d forgotten his name, Gregory, something, and just like her, he was a dark-skinned black. Taneesha's demeanor changed dramatically. Her frown lifted into a gaping grin, her eyes sparkled, and she asked Gregory to join us. He hesitated for a moment, but I insisted. We shook hands. Now was my opportunity to exit this situation without causing a scene. I took a last swig of my beer and said, “Whoa, look at the time; nice meeting you both, but I gotta run.”

And I ran. I ran away from black women until I met my beautiful wife, who didn’t have a problem with my color, nor I hers, and we’ve been happily married for 25 years.

Nowadays, with the advancement of smartphones and social media, mulatto men don’t have to worry about meeting a woman sight unseen. However, straight, mulatto men need to remember that the Tanneshas of America will always choose the dark-skinned male first.

My Hat Obsession

View fullsize

Image “Fool Map” is designated CC0 1.0 Public Domain.

Rule #1 - Don’t go out of your way to appear Afrocentric, i.e., wearing dreadlocks and African clothes, attending “pro-black” cultural events, etc.

My hat obsession began in 1995 after I’d been thoroughly indoctrinated with NOI teachings. I got rid of my greasy Jheri-curl look and shaved my head. It was incredibly liberating, especially when the temperature reached 90 degrees in August. However, once fall and winter arrived, I needed something to keep my bald scalp warm. But what to choose? I was never a hat person, not since grade school, so I usually wore behind-the-head earmuffs to avoid messing up my hair.

The first cover that caught my eye was a tweed Po-Boy or newsboy cap, popular during the 1920s and 30s and never really went out of style. I bought one from a hat seller on the street, but it didn’t quite compliment my facial features, and the brim always left a creased indentation across my forehead. My second choice was a fedora. All male laborers in the NOI wore them to compliment their suits and bow ties. It was a classy, dignified look. So I went to an older gentleman’s clothing store near my apartment in Queens and purchased a center-dent charcoal gray Trilby with a small red feather on the side. I wore it several times, but it looked ridiculous, fashion-wise, when combined with a regular jacket and blue jeans. It ended up on a hook in the back of my closet.

What I wanted was something original. I found an African tailor working at Mart 125 in Harlem who created custom-made leather goods. I gave him my hat size and a few style suggestions. The result, several weeks later, was something that resembled a black leather piss cutter or garrison cap with a thin white stripe running along the side. And although he seemed to know his craft, the work wasn’t as professional as I’d hoped. The brother’s stitching technique was uneven in several places, with loose threads hanging out the back. I only wore the hat once after a friend said it reminded her of a “gay biker in bondage.” Ouch!

Strike three, but I wasn’t ready to give up yet. I ventured into one of those cluttered African stores in Harlem filled with racks of kente cloth, jewelry, wooden masks, brass elephants, and other trinkets. I tried on a black and brown Kufi mud cloth Bogolan hat and stood in front of the mirror for several minutes, trying different poses - left profile, right profile, pulled back, pulled down—anything to make my biracial features appear more ethnically African.

The final episode of my hat experience occurred at a black power rally for some disgraced and disbarred ex-attorney at a church in Harlem in the Spring of 1996. I crept in, wearing my Kufi hat and brown khaki pants, surrounded by a crowd of black power characters decked out head to toe in kinte and mud cloth. I was invisible for a moment before making my way to the balcony. Ten minutes into the program, a dark musclebound negro stuffed inside an ill-fitting military-style uniform said, “What you doing here?”

“Excuse me,” I replied.

“This rally is for Africans only.”

“I am from Africa,” I said. “North Africa.” (I had no idea then that part of my DNA was North African. I only said it to diffuse the situation because, in the past, Arab food vendors had asked me if I was from Egypt or Morocco.) He stood there perplexed, unsure how to comprehend or respond to what he’d heard, and finally walked away.

I walked away as well, forever, from situations and places where I didn’t belong or was not accepted.

If you’re a straight mulatto man, I recommend you do the same.

The Allegory of a Dusty

View fullsize

Image “Empty Pockets” by Puroticorico is licensed under CCBY-SA 2.0.

Based on Rule # 1. I keep returning to one of my favorite books: Soul On Ice by Eldridge Cleaver, who, from 1968-71, was Minister of Information of the Black Panther Party for Self-Defense. In an essay titled “The Allegory of the Black Eunuchs,” a group of young black men gather at a prison picnic table for lunch when an old greying negro with straightened hair, described by the author as a “chocolate Santa Claus” sits down uninvited.  

The younger men start playing head games with the guy they now refer to as Lazarus. After a few minutes, old Lazarus reveals how much he hates black women and loves white women. Regardless of her appearance, every white woman (he calls her Jezebel) is a goddess to him. She is the forbidden fruit representing freedom, while the black woman, with her intractable nature and nappy hair, symbolizes oppression and slavery. Lazarus swears he will never be free (from his emotional castration) until American society allows him access to any white woman he chooses.

Years ago, I worked with a student who asserted that the civil rights movement of the 1960s had little to do with voting or social justice. The actual objective of elite negroes was to legally get their hands on white pussy. He said, “Have you ever seen the documentary Eyes On The Prize? The prize at the end of the rainbow is a white woman! And you're not going to believe this part either, brother. It's not in any history books, but Jews were the actual beneficiaries of the civil rights movement. Whites hated them almost as much as they hated negroes. So the Jew decided to bankroll civil rights organizations, hoping to overturn many of the No Dogs, No Jews [italics mine] discriminatory policies in American housing. The Jews needed segregation to end so they could expand their business and financial empire across the country.”

Lazarus described a conspiratorial structure in America with the white man as an “Omnipotent Administrator.” He's the one in charge and represents the brain. The black man is the opposite; He's the dimwitted, “Supermasculine Menial” body, and his place is in the fields and factories performing manual labor. The “Omnipotent Administrator” makes the rules; therefore, he doesn't want any woman or non-white man to achieve a higher education than himself, as they would threaten his absolute authority. “The Administrator” can have sexual relations with white or black women, whereas the “Supermasculine” black man can only have sex with black women whom he doesn't want. Any violation of the directive means death.

“Allegory of the Black Eunuchs” was written almost 55 years ago, and just like old fat Lazarus, many African-American men today, especially those with wealth, still feel entitled to any woman on the planet. Black women, however, especially the darker ones, must remain loyal to the black community and not intermingle or marry outside of the race. Besides the stressful responsibility of single motherhood, these women must also serve as activist warriors, fighting the black man's battles while he hides in the shadows like a punk ass sissy.

Thank God, there's an online movement of fearless black women encouraging other black females to divest from “Blackistan” - a nightmarish, parallel America inhabited by Dusties: shiftless, dirt-poor black men with nothing to offer but their dicks and a mouthful of word salad. A dusty is hopeless with technology. He only uses a computer to troll the internet, especially YouTube, and various chat rooms to monitor what black women say about him. If exposed, he'll blame white supremacy for his failures as a father, husband, and provider.

On the streets and barbershops of Blackistan, stoned Dusties try to impress each other with senseless basketball-dominated chatter. “Yo, nigger, my man Lebron scored thirty-two points last night with fifteen rebounds.” As if Lebron James's millions will magically trickle down to them. By wearing the same pricey caps, jerseys, and sneakers (no doubt purchased by their girlfriends or baby mommas) as their favorite sports heroes, Dusties are making white and Asian men who own the stores rich.

In Blackistan, a variant of the dusty, known as a hotep, stalks nightclubs, bars, and cultural events. His mission is to fool black women into thinking he’s intelligent and Afrocentric when, in fact, it’s only a ploy to gain access to her bed, car, and bank accounts. These pseudo-revolutionaries dress up in African garb and preach that black salvation rests on principles established in ancient Egypt 4,000 years ago. Although most wouldn't know the difference between a pharaoh and a sparrow, they consider themselves descendants of ancient kings and non-existent biblical Israelites.

Unfortunately, regardless of socioeconomic status, many females in Blackistan (called dust bunnies) continue to fall for the dust man's rhetoric and will birth children whom he has no intention of supporting. I'm not blaming black women, though. It's not their fault. Since childhood, they've been conditioned to defend the dusty, even those who have abused or abandoned them. Divesting from Blackistan will take time, maybe a hundred years. I hope more black women heed the call and get out before it's too late.