Notebook: Protest is Performance And Performance is Protest

Now is the time for protests and performance in both big and small ways. Now is the time sign petitions, make statements, participate in marches, virtue-signal, draft press releases in support of #BlackLivesMatter. I will take all of it, the shallow and the deeply felt, the instagram celebs and the poignant moments of truth. I do not differentiate. History will sort out truth from fiction. But right now, I think we should be encouraging people to act in any way they can because this is all apart of a grand public performance.

 Most protest is performative activism. I love Tonya Pinkins's medium article titled "Why I'm Fed Up with Performative Activism" but some people have taken this idea as a cudgel to bash any metaphorical protests. You're tossing performative around like it's a negative thing. The most effective protests throughout history have been performative metaphors that are theatrical-ized by people. The Boston Tea Party was performative...a bunch of white dudes got dressed up like Native Americans and dumped tea into the harbor. Did the tea dump do vital damage to the British Empire? No. Were the protestors only upset about tea prices? No. Yet, the performance of that small act was a metaphor that galvanized other people. A small group of people perform a metaphor that sticks in the mind's of people...yes it IS like theatre. 

-what you're really talking about is the difference between an effective performance and ineffective performance as protest. So what makes an effective performance? Well first off there is timing and attention...

-Remember National School Walkout? Students across the country participated in anti-gun violence.  In some small towns there was no groundswell of support. But there was one student who walked out for an hour, or one student who stood on the street by themselves. What difference can one student make? Nothing. But it was performative gesture, it was the right time, and it got attention b/c someone took a picture of it. And the images of those individual students was as powerful and poignant as the thousands of people walking out together. Why? Because it struck a heroic note of -even if I am the last person- I'm going to do the right thing. 

Ppl judge situations by 3 factors: 1) is the cause good or bad 2) is the protests active or passive 3) does it come across as strong or weak? Gandhi's 1930 Salt March was to protest British law forbidding Indians from making their own salt. He was going to take a long walk to the ocean and then make salt from the water. Salt is a pure and clean image in people's mind. It comes from the earth, it is a natural thing. The salt march takes something seemingly mundane and charges it with political and spiritual meaning. A walk becomes 1) virtuous 2) strong 3) active in opposing the British Crown. His adversaries look evil and foolish because they're stopping a kindly old man from taking a walk and  making salt out of ocean water.  MLK repeated this strategy in Selma. He took a walk across a bridge. Like Gandhi he had the perfect visual metaphor: an actual bridge both black and white people were going to cross. The performative metaphor and its context allowed the protestors to do the right thing, be strong, and be active by taking a walk, praying, walking some more. The evil of segregation would be highlighted by King walking across a bridge. Did he need to literally walk across that bridge to get somewhere? No. It's not like his house was on the other side. But did we -as a nation- need him to walk across that bridge so that WE could get somewhere? Absolutely. 

-AIDS Quilt is performative, ACT UP's 'die-in's are performative and theatrical. Later on, #BLM repeated the same tactic by laying their bodies on the ground and pretending to be dead. 

- Tiananmen Square tank guy is performative. We all know the tank could've crushed him or a soldier could have walked out and arrested him and dragged him away. The performance was a game of chicken: I dare you to show how brutal you are to your citizens in secret prisons...but in public.

-This is why theatre ppl love protests. Yes we are a vain and narcissistic bunch, but we're also looking for the metaphors in our lives that take mundane things and charge them with meaning. 

- So what good does a performative statement do from a corporation during this crisis? It serves as a record. It is an apology and a promissory note. Generally  most people think 'out of sight, out of mind' but that promise to do better doesn't die. Like the truth, it travels underground and builds and grows. Wickedness thrives in silence and off-the-record. That's why Black people are all about records. Our entrance into this country was as a matter of trade records. We keep lists and notes and details. Like Nina Simone's "Pirate Jenny" there is a day of reckoning. There is a time when the bill must be paid and we have all the receipts. So get your company, your theatre, your boss, your local org to make those #BLM statements. Get them on record because they're going to forget. But all that is forgotten is not lost. The bill must be paid. 

-Virtue Police: The idea that there's some pure virtuous cause unblemished by human vanity and selfishness is bullshit. Every cause is tainted with 'me' because I bring me along to every action. There is a honeymoon period where you can attract idealists and get them to do a few good deeds. But every movement that lasts for the long haul has self-interests. The question is how do we take your self-interests, my self-interests, their self-interests...put it in a pot and melt it down to some thing that can be achieved.

A FALL FROM GRACE: When Tyler Perry Out Tyler Perry's Himself

A few nights ago I was laughing so hard that I couldn't finish A FALL FROM GRACE. Today I watched the rest of it. OMG, SWEET BABY JESUS 😳. The plot is off-the-wall, the lead character pouts her way through a murder trial, the trial itself was a 5-min montage of 'OBJECTION... OVERRULED.... SUSTAINED...STEP AWAY COUNSELOR...OBJECTION' and then they were at closing argument. I'm not going to spoil the ending b/c there is NO WAY any sane person is going to guess how the story unfolds. The movie could have had an alien spaceship land and lasers blast their way into the courtroom to present key evidence... and it would've made as much sense. The shit was bananas!

I get the Tyler Perry economics. This was a 5-day shoot. This was boot camp/factory work/Roger Corman rolled into one long dirty streak across the face of Netflix. Now race complicates everything in this equation. He's working in Atlanta...a town where there are 2 black women for every black man. A cosmopolitan city filled with professional black women. And in the southern cities, in general, there is a lack of black male professionals to match the amount of black females. So he's dealing that that deep psychological pressure, the supply-and-demand of love pressure. I get it. And it's even more apparent if you go to a black church. The character in this script isn't more complex. She is literally the vice president of a bank (to quote Jackson's A STRANGE LOOP) who thinks she will never fall in love again until she meets a man 'too good to be true.' But guess what...spoiler alert: he is! I will say this though...there are some BIG twists in the story toward the end. It's like he took the note about writing the same black female dynamic and he said 'okay, you want something different...how about THIS!!!?!'

Unfortunately the twists make absolutely NO GODDAMN SENSE. There are enormous plot holes, logic problems, and things that go 'wow....wait, WTF?!?' The entire backend of the movie is a slide into absurdity and horror. Poor Cicely Tyson out here looking like she's in a Korean horror movie. The beginning of the movie is a clue, but the clue doesn't MAKE SENSE! It's crazy. He's trying to wink to the audience but the wink isn't seductive...it's like 'wink wink...guess what? My house is on fire!' You would be like 'yo...Why are winking at me to tell me that?! That's not scary of sexy...it's just weird and off-putting. Take care of your house.'

Granted, I respect the used car salesman hustle of Perry...but Tyler baby...you know what...I'm not going to say it. I'm not gonna 'should' anyone b/c they're too many 'soldier shoulds' online telling ppl what to think and how to live. But Tyler baby...babbbbeee... I-I, don't even know what to say about those plot points. You know what: not important. Namaste!

Tyler Perry is successful b/c he is a WILDLY entertaining hack who has no interests in craftsmanship. Freed of artistic integrity, he is able to crank out an insane amount of product to fill content needs at bargain-basement prices. His stories are overflowing with hysterical impossible contrivances that will make half the audience scream WTF and the other half love it...but no one walks away bored. You will never be bored in a Perry movie. It's like going on a cross-country road trip with a meth head: you know you're gonna have stories to tell your grandkids...if you make it out alive.

His commitment to this ethos of faster, cheaper, more shirtless men, and more Jesus has attracted a following. That following has attracted...good actors. Surprisingly, at this stage in a hack career, he is pulling in stars...usually black women who are older and given less exciting roles at this point in their career. Perry offers them the chance to 'go in' on playing crazy, demented, manipulative, sexy, and layers unexplored in most Hollywood fare. In return, these older actors deliver the goods...no matter the script, the shooting time, the lack of craft. They come to work.

If you ever doubt the commitment of old-pro actors to read a whack-a-doo, banana pants crazy-ass script, be told they're going to shoot the entire movie in 5 days, wear the cheapest shake-and-go Brazilian wigs, and deliver absurd lines with absolute Hamlet-like conviction...then A FALL FROM GRACE should restore your faith in the chainsmoking, lunch pail, artists. These are the kind of actors who could shoot 20 pages of a cheesy 1960s soap opera script during the day and then do a 3-hour play in the evening, snort all the coke at a nightclub, get into a fistfight with the bouncer, and show up on set at 7AM, fresh as a daisy. So kudos to the cast for pure commitment.

Playing While Black

People were shouting. I was laying flat on my stomach in the shopping plaza parking lot. My glasses had been ripped off and all I could see was a blur moving toward me. It was either a cop or a security guard. His hands griped the belt holster. I couldn't tell whether it was a gun, a taser, or pepper spray he was about to bring out. I spun around and rolled onto my back with my hands in the air. I wanted him to see my eyes. It was amazing how quickly something could be misinterpreted in public. As I lay on the ground thinking about this, I felt a strange rush overtake me and a smirk of fear and excitement spread across my lips. Over the chaos, I shouted "no no no!"

In high school I was on the wrestling team. It was like having 12 little brothers. We would slap, smack, flick, kick, punch, and trip each other for entertainment. Our aggressive affection would come out in practice and flow out into our daily interactions. Our coaches were like our parents trying to calm down their hyper-active kids. Road trips were great opportunities for our teenage selves to get outside of North Miami Beach, staying in hotel room like adults, while competing with other schools from around the state.

When traveling, the roughhousing would start in the van. It was minor stuff, flicking the ear of the passenger in front of us, shoving each other for the best seat. At the rest stops the action would turn into tripping each other on the way to the bathroom, slap fights, chasing each other. On more than more occasion the chasing would flow out of the rest stop parking lots and on to the interstate highway while our coaches faces flushed with anger and fear at our demise at the hands of a 18-wheeler. When we arrived at the hotel, we would get put in our respective rooms and then the real fighting would start. Body slamming, hurling each other on to beds, rolling around on the floor while choking each other into submission. The coaches would bang on the walls from their room while drinking Coronas and smoking cigars.

Our wrestling team was North Miami Beach diverse: Haitian, Caribbean, Latin American, Jewish, and even the occasional WASP. When we would venture into Central and Northern Florida -which is the equivalent of the deep south, our crew would definitely draw attention. When strolling into one tournament in Central Florida, the rural coaches shouted 'uh-oh, here come the thugs! They're gonna rob us!' There was laughter as the insults went back and forth with us hurling claims of them screwing their cousins and tipping cows as they wanted to know how much crack-cocaine we had shoved up our ass. The wrestling locker room humor was drenched in competitive hatred, bigotry, prejudice, and tribalism as teenagers stripped down for weigh-ins and were placed in their respective tournament brackets.

We were in rural Florida on another wrestling trip, when our coaches decided to go shopping. They pulled the van into one of those non-descript Florida shopping plazas that litter I-95 corridor. We got out of the van and started tripping and slapping each other as we walked from store to store. A clerk in one stores suggested we leave and we sulked out into the plaza sidewalk, where the roughhousing continued.

In this particular we had a new member on the NMB traveling team: a Haitian teenager who was muscular, dark-skinned, and short. Now in many of these group rumbles it was me vs. everyone else. I enjoyed the battle of me against the world. The challenge made me feel like Bruce Lee dispatching of a fleet of adversaries. I would grab one of the smaller wrestlers and use him as a bludgeoning tool, swinging them around by their legs to take out a new wave of challengers in one blow (yes, we had no regard for concussions back then). We would never try to intentionally hurt or injure each other, as we would burst into delirious fits of laughter during the rumbling.

Usually I had no problem holding my own in these friendly battles. The new member of these games threw off the power dynamic. Muscular and squat in stature, the other guys decided to try a new tactic and use the Haitian teenager's strength in the first wave of attack while laying back. He lunged at me first and wrapped himself around one of my legs. Planted into the ground, the second wave of wrestlers came and attacked my free leg and took control. And then the final wrestler jumped on my back and wrapped himself around my shoulders trying to take me down. I did my best Terminator impersonation as I roared and swung my legs around while people grappled on.

My glasses were smacked off and I heard someone apologize while my glasses were pocketed for safekeeping. They took me down and we rolled around on the asphalt. My face was pushed down into the ground and all of sudden I heard shouting. Suddenly my legs and arms were free. All my friends had scattered. I looked up and saw a blurry figure running toward me as my savior. A stranger, a concerned store clerk? It was some kind of law enforcement officer or security guard. But when the officer started to reach for his holster, I realized that maybe he wasn't there to save me.

I wondered whether he had a gun, taser, or pepper spray on his belt. Whatever it was, I didn't want to get hit with 10,000 volts of electricity, chemical spray, or a warning shot, while lying on my stomach with the top part of my head exposed. Using my wrestling dexterity, I spun and flipped myself on to my back in one smooth motion while throwing my hands up near my ears. A bizarre smile appeared on my face as the officer realized that he wasn't breaking up a fight but teenage boy roughhousing.

I became aware of the picture we just created in that public space. This horde of black, brown, and yellow masculine bodies tossing each other around in a Central Florida parking lot. Unfortunately the victim in question (me) wasn't a blonde damsel in distress. As he got closer, I identified the blur as a the security guard, who was now extremely disappointed that he wouldn't be able to unsheathe his holster.

We all ended up laughing about the misunderstanding. My glasses were handed back to me and we spent the rest of our shopping time walking around the parking lot, trying to look as non-threatening and peaceful as possible.

Back in the van, we told our coaches about what had just happened while laughing. They didn't find it funny. In fact, they were horrified and reminded us that someone could have been shot by some 'redneck' cop. One of the wrestlers reminded the coach that the cop would have only shot the Haitian guy or me. The laughter faded away and into an uncomfortable silence on the ride back to the hotel.

From that day forward, I didn't participate in any roughhousing in public. My coaches praised me for this change, seeing it as a sign of maturity. When my other teammates would try to goad me into a fight at a convenience store or on the street, I reminded them that I was the one who could get in trouble. They usually backed off with a quiet understanding. 

Civil Rights Movement: 10 Questions to my Mom

This year is the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington. Today my mom said 'oh yeah, I did some protesting.' I had no idea.

In 1963, my mom -Yvonne Boston- was a college student in Daytona Beach, Florida. She went to the historically Black college, Bethune Cookman. I wanted to record these details from 1963.

Name: Yvonne Boston Squire

Hometown: Columbia, South Carolina

Current Town: Miami Gardens, FL. 


Q: What did you do?

A: We held protests at Morrison Cafeteria when we were in college. Marching around with signs to get them desegregate the entire restaurant. Back then, Morrison had a big chain in Daytona and Miami. I never ate there before because it was too far from campus.


Q: Why didn't you tell me this before?

A: I don't know. Everyone was doing it back then. I was in college and I think the NAACP came to our campus and asked us students to be a part of the movement. We signed up. Our non-violence training was pretty simple. They just told us 'this isn't Malcolm X. We're not trying to punch people. Don't respond to their comments. Just walk and hold the signs.'


Q: Were you able to stay completely non-violent?

A: Sort of. We were marching back and forth in front of the cafeteria. There was this middle-aged White woman who kept breaking our line. And she would bump me. And then she would come back through and bump me again. So the third time I put my elbow out. (laughs) It was very subtle but I just nudged her and kept marching. It was little...just some people are bullies, you know that. And they just need a little encouragement...(laughs) to stop. She didn't come back through our line again.


Q: How many of you showed up?

A: 20-30 depending on the day. Bethune was a small college. A lot of people were on Malcolm X's side. They wanted violence. I really didn't know what I wanted. I just floated through. I remember coming back from protest and having to go to German class (laughs). "Machen sie das buch zu!"


Q. How long did you march?

A: A few hours each day. We marched maybe a few weeks or a month or so, don't quite remember. It was around November. And then Kennedy was killed.


Q: How were people back then?

A: Daytona isn't a place people were born. People come from other places. So we had catcalls from people in cars and on the sidewalks.


Q: What would they say?

A: Go home...and 'other things.'


Q: Did you march on the day when Kennedy was killed?

A: Yes. And a car drove by and someone yelled out, 'your president got killed.' Your president. As if they are from another country. 'How do you feel now, your president has been shot! Go home!'


Q: How did students react to Kennedy being assassinated?

A: People were shocked and sad. They were crying. It was unbelievable. Someone heard it on the radio and it spread around the campus. But we still got out there that day and the next.


Q: And what ended up happening?

A: They desegregated. Very soon after that. But I ate at Morrison's years later in Miami...after they had desegregated. The food was actually good.

Father's Day and Black Men

This day has always felt incidental. Father's Day was an "Oh, by the way" holiday that involved a quick stop at a tie wrack, cheap wrapping paper, and a firm pat on the back.

Way to go.


Thanks for hanging in there, Dad.


You are not a terrible Dad. Huh, go figure.

In the Black community the celebration of Dads seems heavily weighed against the bad Fathers of the world. Posts are worded to say 'for all the good Dad: thanks for not beating us silly...yet.' That's not exactly a raving compliment but more like a backhanded insult against men in general.

Several years ago I remember listening to 99 Jamz while driving around in Miami. The DJ announced that Angie Stone was going to write and produce a tribute song for Black men. There was a hilariously long silence after the statement. In the room was the DJ, who was a Black man, his sidekick (also a Black man) and the news announcer, who was a Black woman. The DJ was the first one to open his mouth.

Really?


Um...yeah. 


Ohhhkay.

There was an edge of caution in the voice of the Black men. There weren't fast-talking or cracking jokes. Their words were slow, carefully measured, and sparse. They were waiting for the punchline to what must be a joke. There had to be a catch. A Black woman was going to publicly compliment Black men. You could almost feel the arched eyebrows and crossed arm posture in the silence. The pause spoke volumes about the state of Black men and receiving a compliment.

You're going to say something nice? Why? 


What do you want? I didn't do nothing! Leave me alone!!!

And the all-time favorite Black male anthem of my generation: IT WASN'T ME!!!

I remember bursting out laughing at the silence and then feeling really depressed. Wow, the state of relations between men and women in the Black community has gotten to a point where gratitude is met with skepticism.

Tune into afternoon and late-night TV and you see where this skepticism festers. On TV Black men are the biological fathers unwilling to take responsibility, the adulterers, ex-convicts, men on the DL, thieves, jobless, thug-lite, and the physical embodiment of mumbling ignorance. Black women are the 'wronged' victim, loud, demonstrative, wrathful, that gets the audience cheering and hooting. Often the Black woman is the one with the job, expressive, educated, with the car, with the house and with the kids. The Black man is somewhere off to the side, desired by never really attained for most lower-class and working class scenarios that are shown.

Jerry Springer and Maury Povich have made a fortune off this model that is eagerly watched in disproportionate numbers by Black and Latino women. And who could forget the incomparable Miss Cleo. The famed psychic with the exaggerated Jamaican accent and head wrap that seemed like an SNL skit. Miss Cleo's psychic powers seemed particularly honed at finding out if a man was or was not the Baby Daddy.

I remember working as an intern at theatre one summer and running into the painful dynamic of Black fathers and their public perception. I was just a summer intern answering the phones and every so often we would get a call from a woman. She was requesting the phone number of a certain Black male writer. I would write her name down and pass this along to my supervisors.

The calls increased in volume and frequency from this mysterious woman, with each call getting worse. The writer in question had been out of contact with her. They had a child together. He owed child support. He wasn't fulfilling his responsibility.

The allegations flew and I calmly listened while I promised to pass along the basic information (minus the gossip) to my supervisors. The other people in the office got into the drama. It was like a mini-soap opera that happened a few times a week and offered some distraction from the boring office work. She would call and then the gossip would fly shortly after hanging up.

Uh-oh!!! He better handle his business!


Baby Daddy Drama!!

And we laughed while I subtly noted that I was often the only Black man laughing. And while my laughter was coming from a place of discomfort and awkwardness, it seemed (although there's no way to know for sure) that other people were laughing from glee. There was a joy in the cliche misery of a successful Black man who wasn't paying child support, who had an angry ex-girlfriend on the line, who had a child who was being deprived. There was laughter. Even at the level of success he had attained, he was acting just like they expected: like a deadbeat.

Would do any good to note that I was raised by both my mother and father. That my father mentored not only his children but dozens of others while working as a school teacher. Would it amount to anything to record the good Black fathers when the bad ones are more alluring for TV cameras? Does any care to note Jack and Jill, Cooking Gents, and many other organizations that are supported by Black fathers.

When I say "Happy Father's Day" my words are weighed with all of these questions. I have no answers, but only my experiences with other caring fathers and my own family.

I was blessed with strong parents. My Dad is Stanley Squire. He deserves more than a day, more than tie, more than I could ever give back to him. He was rarely thank'ed, often dismissed, ridiculed, presumed unintelligent and liar for being a Black man and a father. He didn't drink, he didn't beat me, and he rarely raised his voice. He helped me with my math homework, taught me how to ride a bike, coached me into a championship child tennis player, drove me to violin practices, and saw me through college, graduate school. He encouraged me to be provocative, ask questions, sit in the front of the class room, the middle of the bus, how to talk to the police without getting beat up, and read like my life depended on it (because it often did).

There aren't enough days in the calendar to honor men like my father. But at least we have this one.