Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas: The Art of Scandal

The most exciting time in a boy's life is when you hear the words 'pubic hair' on the evening news. No county fair or ice cream sundae can outshine the surreptitious joy of seeing grown adults utter phrases like 'Long Dong Silver' while reading from a teleprompter. These words are candy and Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas was like a Willie Wonka amusement park of sexual taboos.

America makes scandal. It is the one of the few products we still control. The jobs created from our scandals can't be shipped away, or downsized. Our semiotic-based economy runs on images, and our images tell stories. We are in the renaissance of scandals. If you need proof look no further than reality TV, which is a systematic scandal factory. Every week audiences are ensured of a new storyline, revelations, fights. The Real Housewives franchise, The Kardashians, Basketball Wives, The Bachelor, Bad Girls Club, Court TV, Talk Soup, Nancy Grace. These are our nation's factories, our commodities, like frozen orange juice or steel. We export our celebrity sex tapes, reality TV, and scandal news around the world into billions of phones, computers, and TVs.

But there is another side to the production of scandal. It is art. Granted the artistry doesn't endure like a statue, but it blossoms and fades. Scandal is live multimedia performance. It is a theatrical art form involving craftsmen, actors, layered stories, cameras, commentators, analysts. The stage setting takes place in a court room, at a hearing, over the course of an investigation while the real trial takes place on the screens. Part media product and part community crafted performance, the American scandal defines my generation's contribution. And we learned at the feet of OJ Simpson, Monica Lewinsky, and the Clarence Thomas hearings.

At the start of the 1990s you didn't talk about sex on the evening news or front pages of newspapers. A sex scandal was something that was only hinted at from the fringes. When even the whiff of sex or drugs was linked to a politician they were expected to promptly resign and disappear. This wasn't a temporary disappearance to rehab before returning with a book and round of talk shows. It was their unspoken duty to become invisible. Forever. The politician in question was almost always white and male. Women public figures and Blacks were strictly off-limits for sex scandals. When a woman was attached to a philandering politician, they were kept faceless and anonymous.

The Clarence Thomas hearing was the perfect storm. All the right conditions were in place. There was suspiciously unknown Black man with questionable credentials. There was the  bipartisan boys club mentality on the Senate committees that was starting to fracture. Even the Black community was shifting away from blind allegiance to any public official just because of race.

The Right Conditions
Black middle-class households expanded to its largest number in decades. We were less interested in the traditional civil rights arguments and more drawn to the fixtures of American bourgeoisie: sex, relationships, apolitical entertainment, therapy, taboos, and titillation. Hip hop culture migrated from social protest and toward individualism, with an emotional split between bravado and neurosis. No longer in the struggle for greater Black power, the message was individual glory, excess, paranoia, and endless self-reflection.

The start of the decade also marked a shift in our cultural heroes. Michael Jordan just won his first of six championships and the superstar athlete embodied the cultural shift away. America was all about the highlight reel slam dunk. The exorbitantly-priced Air Jordan's were trophies to tongue-wagging, 360 dunk of consumerism. Manufactured in sweat shops for pennies, the shoes weren't great feats in podiatric engineering. Rain and bad weather betrayed Air Jordan's cheap third-world construction and penny material. But the shoes said what the owners wanted: 'I can put $200 on my feet.'

After that Anita Hill testimony we were forever altered in how we dealt with the private lives of public officials. Anita and Clarence were the launch pad for the sex-scandal crazed  decade of resignations, special prosecutors, apologies, mistresses, and impeachments.

CNN and the 24-hour news network was hitting its stride. It's one thing to avoid sex scandal when all the news is compressed into 30-minutes on 3 networks aiming for the broadest possible audience. It's quite another thing when you have cable news streamlining all the time to a small segment of the population. CNN was for politicians and other news wonks. It was one step above C-SPAN and the no-frills delivery of information gushed forth every minute of the day. What's one man's oil strike is another man's busted sewer pipe. And the scandal that spews underground slowly works its way up through the tabloid gutters and media pipelines trickling upward from the lower depths. You could smell it and feel the damp fetid warmth before you actually see the revelation on the esteemed network news. CNN changed the scandal rule out of necessity for content. Sex for cable news are like hurricane season for the Weather Channel. A gold rush of ratings.

Thomas was Black mediocrity incarnate. He was elevated above his level due to racial sycophancy. Embodying both the lower-intelligence and lower-skill level many conservative men expected out of Blacks and managing to stay completely quiet and unremarkable until called upon were Thomas's strengths.

The Token Villain
Down in Miami we had our own Clarence Thomas. Arthur Teele was a Reagan appointee of average skill and success, but fit the Black conservative archetype. He was quiet, highly deferential, and thoroughly corrupt. The political powers had enough dirt on Teele to keep him as a docile token. Teele reeked havoc on the Miami Black community. Entrusted with re-investment strategies, he used his platform to establish a network of cronies that rotted out the guts of Miami government for years. Downtown Miami and Liberty City became a sea of empty, newly paved parking lots with Teele at the helm. This wasn't an accident. Teele would leverage his position to bulldoze churches and small business, and then pay his crony building contractors to pave parking lots in its place. Statistically this showed up as a new building and also a reduction in crime. Of course this was also a reduction in community and long-term growth.

Damaged by poverty, slums, and riots, Liberty City now had Teele. When he tried to run for a Miami commissioner position, enthusiasm for his candidacy in the Black community was non-existent. As my first foray into politics, I volunteered for his phone bank. My Dad thought it would be good for me to help out a Black Republican. Both of my parents were turned Republican by Reagan, but finding other Black professional GOP'ers was still a rare find. Teele represented a conservative Black Miami man.

Although I was only a child, I was shocked at how disorganized and indifferent Teele's campaign was when I volunteered. I made a dozen or so calls and then was told to relax and not work so hard. Only one other person worked the phones and she left early. I wandered around the cluttered office with dim lights and then the man himself walked in. Teele was tall, dark, and regally bald. I vaguely recall he was crouched in by a low ceiling. His secretary pointed to me and whispered something in his ear. Teele walked toward me and shook my hand. He said a few unspectacular words about a young person getting involved in the campaign and moved along.

My instant adolescent reaction was flight. I wanted to get away from this man and his office. After the handshake I checked my palm which felt as if it had been greased. I remember thinking 'wow, politicians really ARE slimy.' I politely waited for him to turn his back before wiping my hands on the inside of my pants pocket.  When my Dad came to pick me up, I carefully choose my words. I knew he wanted me to be impressed and endeared. I informed him that I appreciated the campaign experience and didn't feel the need to come back to the Teele headquarters.

Years later, Teele stormed in the Miami Herald downtown headquarters, after a drug and sex-fueled rampage across town. With the FBI closing in on his ring of prostitutes, drug dealers, and crony friends, Teele was being tailed by federal and local law enforcement. Paranoid, desperate, and armed Art Teele committed suicide with his own gun in the Miami Herald lobby as arresting officers waited outside. Even though I found him thoroughly unlikeable in person and he displayed a cartoon villain-level of corruption that kept their boots firmly pressed on the neck of Liberty City,  Teele was the last of his kind. A former Marine, he was a part of the wave of Black professionals flirting with conservatism in the 1980s, enamored by Reagan's charm and common-sense talk. Clarence Thomas was a part of these new wave Black republicans.

The Scandal

Due my personal history with Black Republicans who I didn't address as Mom or Dad, I had an immediate suspicion of Clarence Thomas. What was in it for this man to promote a cause which hurt people who looked like him? At least Teele had a legacy of parking lots, prostitutes, and kickbacks. His corruption -though slimy- made sense. Thomas's tokenism seemed to be about something a lot more frightening than just another corrupt Black politican trying to 'get over.'

I first heard about Anita Hill on CNN. It was an uneventful fall season of news. The newscaster began by claiming there was a woman who had allegations against Clarence Thomas. A drop of blood in the water. I leaned in, intrigued. The cable news strip tease was underway. CNN ran their alarming 'Breaking News" graphic to report an unnamed, non-specific allegation against a Thomas. Although the dance is slightly different each times, the steps usually go like this: the anchor reports with heavy gravitas almost nothing, just a hint of news. Then there is a cut to another reporter, who throws the bucket of chum into the water by reading the actual claim. Visually, they're often reading from a page, which makes it seem more 'urgent' and fresh to the audience. The anchor and reporter engage in a back and forth conversation, even though they're both already informed about the scandal. It helps if the TV news can refer to a newspaper or magazine or on-going investigation. Now it's a race between the different medias to see who can give the most details and the most updated information. Amidst the churning red waves, a reporter will occasionally throw in a 'by the way, none of these claims have been confirmed' reminder just to keep a sliver of accountability alive before returning to the chum buckets. The news graphic crew frantically scrambles for images to attach to the story because without any footage, there is no buzz. The initial footage is anything they can find, and has little to do with the scandal. It's high school photo, wedding video, dirty socks, anything really.

Cable news orchestrated the Anita Hill news break like a beautifully orchestrated ballet. It is still the masterpiece of sex scandals with plots, characters, and rising tension. Hill's actual identity first came out as someone who worked with Thomas. Of course, she could be just some crazy woman who became envious of Thomas. It's very common to counterstrike against sexual harassment claims with the 'sluts and nuts' retort by casting the woman as jealous, deranged, "Fatal Attraction" femme fatale. Then the catch came out: she was a professor of law at the University of Oklahoma. Not exactly someone who fits the profile 'boil your bunny' profile.

I had never seen a powerful Black man in pitted against an educated Black woman. These things just don't happen in my world. We are taught to circle the wagons, unite, keep our secrets. Black women don't speak out against Black men without incurring the wrath of other Black women, the ridicule of men, and the confusion of Whites.

Anita Hill was challenging the taboos of Black female suppression. It didn't matter that she had no desire to testify and was only seeking to tell her story, a story which seems more and more probable with the passing of time. The act of her speaking in private to the Senate investigators was enough to kick off a wave of claims and increasing buzz. I think if it wasn't for cable news and salacious leaks, Anita Hill might have never been called to Washington. Reporters forced the hand of reluctant Senators, who no more wanted Anita Hill talking about unspoken workplace harassment women put up with every day than they wanted to revisit the politics of the Vietnam War. This was a Pandora's Box America, the Black community, and our government was being forced to open it.

Black Leadership Follows

Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, and other people who are confusingly listed as 'Black leaders' were called upon to comment on this issue. You had a political token in Thomas, who believed in everything Jackson fought against: repeal of affirmative action, the dismantling of welfare, weak enforcement of discrimination laws. Conversely, Hill fit into the mold of progressive, liberal. When Jackson and other so-called Black leaders came out in guarded support for Thomas I knew the fix was in. They just wanted a Black face on the bench, regardless of views, skills, or beliefs. That's fine, but did they have to support the worst in us, in the hopes

Thurgood Marshall resigned from the Supreme Court, leaving a slot open that conventional wisdom stated should go to another Black judge. The question was how to find a Black candidate who was also a conservative Republican. Bush was looking for a Trojan Horse Black: someone who could be sneaked through a Democratic majority in the Senate. Clarence Thomas fit the bill. A Reagan appointee whose lone distinction was to lead the Equal Employment Opportunity Committee into a decade of ineffectiveness, Thomas woefully unfit. Thomas lead the charge that gutted the EEOC in the 1980s, and left racial discrimination claims unchecked. Thomas was then shuttled into other positions and was relatively unknown. Thomas's law grades and job record was unremarkable.

It was the first time I saw the strong suggestions of misogyny within the decaying Black civil rights movement. No attempt was made to reach Anita Hill before the Black male leadership cabal hit the airwaves to add their spin. Black men and White men were finally working together...to shut this woman up. Certainly this was not the mountaintop moment we had been working toward as a country.

'That Woman' Arrives

By the time Anita Hill came before the cameras she was Joan of Arc to some and Lady Macbeth to many others. I would come home from school and immediately turn on the TV to get my daily fix.

Her voice was strong and feminine. She looked attracted but very professional. l remember Hill's posture, as she sat through hours of grilling. Her chest would cave ever so slightly, diminishing herself while her voice would quiver at the higher register. She was thoroughly believable in her personal integrity and salacious claims. Hill never wept for pity or dramatically played on her womanhood. that would have been too cheap. She was cool, factual, and smooth.

When she couldn't recall a particular detail, Hill would bluntly tell the Senate Committee that she had no information. When they insisted, prodded, attempted to humiliate, she didn't get emotional or lash back at them. Hill simply wiped the dirt off and continued with her testimony. She was Claire Huxtable. Black womanhood as it had never before been seen outside of fiction, was now being piped into the homes of millions.

The esteemed all-male Senate panel barely contained their loathing and fear of Ms. Hill. They openly sneered at her answers, shook their heads before she would finish, telegraphed their paternalistic disapproval. Senator Arlen Specter and Joe Biden were the most egregious in their kabuki acting. The duo played a starring role in contemptuous male chorus.

Seeking to embarrass or stutter her calm demeanor they lingered over the most infamous claims. Pubic hair on Coke, discussions over women's breast size, and recounting porn star Long Dong Silver. Hill didn't gasp or pause as she reconfirmed the allegations. She drove ahead, even more determined by the attempt to shame her. This is startling because shame is often the cause of silence. The abused often keep quiet from shame. There were others who made harassment claims against Thomas, but almost all of them kept silent. Hill's calm delivery spoke loudly to millions. She was not ashamed, she did not need to apologize, she would not go away.

It was the senators who ended up blushing and stuttering. While they faltered, she shined. The cameras devoured Hill. Now I understood why senators, presidents, and Black leaders were scared. Truth is scary when you're living a lie. And the confirmation hearings were the centerpiece of this untruthful culture of politics and noise. Anita Hill cut through this in a few short days of testimony. Her outrageous allegations fed the scandal, but Hill's presence superseded it.

High-Tech Lynching

Although he had been in high-level government positions for over a decade, there were no co-worker or managers who were coming out to praise Clarence Thomas. "Yeah, he worked here" seemed to be the general praise toward the nominated judge. Not encouraging. When Thomas's underwhelming grades came out I finally recognized who he was.

I went to school with students like Clarence Thomas. They were picked on by other Black kids for being too dark, too ugly, too dumb, too slow. The White teachers would show them charity them and shield them from their own people. Mistaking pity for love, these Black kids became devoted teacher pets and vicious attack dogs. Their harshest attacks were reserved for other Black students. Failing at looks and brains, their man assets were fealty and cunning. They held their appointments through sycophancy and fiercely protect their territory against other Blacks. These kids grew into young adult whose main aspiration was to join the Young Republicans or manipulate their way up the ladder, while kicking down any other Black competitors. And when they were backed into a corner, they played the proverbial race card. They would scream 'racism' to the white hierarchy if exposed as frauds and then demand racial loyalty from other Blacks in their fight. Once their survival was ensured they would return right back to their token pet/attack dog dual status. Their main excuse for their ruthless traits was that everyone was secretly like them.

True to form, Thomas declared that he was the victim of a 'high-tech lynching.' Those three words made the Senate committee melt. The tough questions, the other women who made similar claims against Thomas, the issue of sexual harassment in the workplace all evaporated. Thomas righteous indignation was so strident and vigorous that you could feel the balance of the hearing shift.

Gender expectations were also switched. Hill offered coolness and precision that many didn't expect out of a Black woman. Thomas emoted white-hot anger, blanketed denials, and hysterical language. I deeply dislike emotional manipulation that shuts down debate. But as I watched Thomas's nostrils flare and eyes narrow it was hard not admire the performance. He knew that he couldn't stand days of follow-up testimony that would revolve solely around these allegations. If the confirmation hearing was drawn out, more of the allegations would come out. As more doubts arised, the Democratic coalition might rediscover their spine. Thomas's name and the Bush administration might face permanent damage.Your name can only be associated with 'pubic hair' so many times before people stop thinking you're the rightful inheritor of Thurgood Marshsall's legacy.

After Thomas's late-night performance it was a done deal. The vote was close but enough Democratic Senators were scared into confirming the nation's second Black Supreme Court justice. Anita Hill didn't go on talk show circuit. Thomas cloaked himself in the regal black robe of justice and disappeared from the cameras. And still there was a sense that almost nothing had been resolved.

The Aftermath

The fact that Clarence Thomas was one of the most under qualified nominees to the Supreme Court has been forgotten. No one remembers test scores and bar exams. Everyone remembers pubic hair being discussed in the Senate. It was a fitting start to the decade of sex scandal. It seemed like every few months there was a new official being charged, being accused, resigning, and apologizing to their wife. Most were mid-level politicians. Then there were the big names. Bob Packwood, Bill Livingston, Newt Gingrich and, of course, Bill Clinton.

These days there is no shame. Politicians don't go away when allegations surface. Networks don't shy away from vivid details. We seamlessly bounce from celebrity trial, to sex tapes, to corruption charges on our screens. In recent years we've added disaster pornography, child murder cases, and missing White women to our scandal industry.

Our politics and news are scored by who's winning and who's losing, instead of what is actually happening in the world. And few seem to notice, and even less seem to care. The mindset has overtaken us and we're in a perpetual group performance, loooking for the camera to validate our experience.

As a child I enjoyed the Anita Hill-Clarence Thomas controversy. The scandal  highlighted many hypocrisies in Black culture and the American political system. As an adult I dread what was created in its wake.

Dancing With My Music

The NYTimes has an article offering the devil's advocate position that yoga does more harm than good. It interviews several teachers and students who have experienced injuries from yoga and concludes that yoga might not be for most people. I could do the same thing by interviewing builders who have gotten into workplace accidents and then asking if hammers are dangerous?

Yoga is a physical tool. The use of it is up to the individual. I find it really bizarre that some people expect yoga to have some Eastern magic in it that shields them from injury, ego, greed, or anything else that people carry with them all the time. Certainly I think yoga is one of the better tools for opening the body and have experienced that personally. But I also love studying healing and matrix energetics. Dr. Richard Bartlett of matrix energetics ridicules yoga from the belief there is some self-existent good. I'm listening to his series in the car and he repeatedly makes fun of Buddhism and chakras, but then clarifies "I don't believe in chakras. I also don't believe in trees. They are constructs."

More and more I'm finding in movement practice my body does somethng. I went to yoga again last night and then went out dancing. Previous night I went to zumba dance class and then went out dancing. Today I had acupuncture and I will probably dance tonight. For dance, I used to be able to dance for hours and I would find my body discovering new contortions and motions. The more I danced, the more free my body became by creating new pathways in the mind.

Getting back into dancing now I find that it takes me about 10-15 minutes to get warmed up creatively. At first my body will bob in a monotonous holding pattern or shift back and forth into some basic moves in my tool kit. And that's when people usually stop dancing either out of getting bored or tired. I find that monotonous holding pattern is the launching pad for breaking out. Similar to when I break through the first 15 minutes swimming in the ocean and then find I can swim for an hour non-stop. The mind gets free and taps into a larger source of potential. Medtation happens the same way for me. There's very little difference between doing 20 minutes and doing 90 minutes because once I pass a certain pre-conditioned threshold, I let go and fall into another larger pool.

I'd like to get back to that point in yoga. When I was in Nicaragua I was doing yoga every morning and I got to a certain point where certain moves that were in the past difficult to hold for a minute, no longer even made me sweat. At that point my body and mind began to play with the movement once I had passed that habituated threshold. I was doing these things with my body that I couldn't have imagined only a month prior to that. And then it becomes real yoga, which is 'educare' from sanskrit of self-education: the body self-teaches the movements it needs. Similar to when I'm dancing, the primordial mind begins to put itself into new postures that unlock tensions. That's why a lot of yoga poses are named after animals, from tapping into that primordial flexibility, or just the natural flexibility of a healthy child's body when it comes into the world. The well-trained yoga teachers (especially the older ones) all emphasize that these movements or asanas are suggestions. The dharma move the body into the direction of self-education b/c that's the only way it really works. Yoga doesn't work b/c I can force myself into a headstand or try to impress and push myself into a bridge pose b/c everyone else is class is doing it.

I've seen ppl in dance classes hurt themselves b/c everyone else is doing a cool move and they want to do it. But in African and Indian dances the movements are suggestions. The end of each class at Alvin Ailey is freestyle and it's amazing what a flowing body can do once it's warmed up. These are accountants, lawyers, and school teachers in the middle of the urban jungle who can suddenly tap into something yearning to get out. As Wayne Dyer said 'you don't want to die with your music stil in you.' It feels like their internal music is being released in these classes and there is just this joy (usually followed by self-conscious embarrassment that they were so free for a moment)

One day at the end of dance class I found myself freestyling Congolese in perfect synchronicity to the drums. I responded and they responded and it built in this jazz-like flow. And then I ended right when I needed to. I wanted to go on dancing but my body was like 'this is the end of this set.' The drummers read that and ended right on the mark, without me signaling them. They were reading my body and energy and I was reading their rhythms. Looking on was a group of black teenagers and kids cracking jokes. Part of my mind said 'oh no, are they going to make fun of me or laugh at this big guy moving around.' And when I stepped into the circle I said 'fuck it.' I just couldn't be concerned, my focus was on talking to the drums not my fears. When I finished I looked over the teenagers had this grudging respect. I had danced like a free man, something I doubt they were experiencing in their 'back against the wall' sarcasm. My music was flowing out of me.

The obvious chicken and egg question: who was reading who first? Was I initially reading the drums or where they reading me? The dancer answer: who cares?!? The Buddhist answer: when there is no duality there is oneness. There is no first or last read. Buddhist dancer answer: The drummer and dancer continually interacted long before and long after the class. The drums of the heart, pulse, feet, and other percussions flow on and intertwine with external drums.

Obama's Humor

Over the last 50 years there is one thing that has united all Americans, regardless of political persuasion, social views, or class status. We like funny presidents. It's not impossible but it's very hard for a national figure to last in America without a sense of humor. Thanks in large part to the age of TV politics, our presidents must be tolerably good-looking (but not gorgeous), have gravitas (without being overbearing), seem informed (but not a nerd), and be able to tell jokes.

Comedic timing wins us over. When an Iraqi journalist hurled his shoes at then President George Bush, he quickly quipped "I could see into that man's sole" which was both a reference to his infamously incorrect assessment of Vladimir Putin's belief in democracy and defused a tense situation caused by the chaos, corruption, torture, and terrorism unleashed by the Iraq war. There are very different types of humor, some of which I don't understand. But people need to feel some sense of comfort, ease with others, and softness.

Humor is a great balm against defeats, setbacks, and the inevitable slides. When Ronald Reagan was beaten by President Ford in the 1976 GOP primary, it was his grace and humor that saved him. Reagan's folksy charm and ability to make fun of himself set up his next run in 1980. When a young Arkansas governor gave the worst speech of his life at the 1988 Democratic Convention, many thought it was the end of his career. Bill Clinton dealt with the setback with acknowledgment and comedy, making fun of his long-winded, wonky speech patterns. Clinton licked his wounds all the way back to Little Rock, shortened his speech patterns, and learned to throw in a few jokes. In the middle of challenging 1992 primary when he was being dogged on all sides by scandals, allegations, and his campaign was sinking, Clinton could still be found braving the cold New Hampshire nights, shaking hands and endearing himself to the proverbial thick-skinned granite state residents.

I remember watching C-SPAN (yes I was a political wonk as a child) broadcast a regular stump speech Clinton was giving a excited crowd while storm clouds gathered over head. Clinton was hitting his stride, the applause lines were getting cheered, but you could tell that this was an old speech he was tired of giving. Thunder erupted overhead, interrupting the applause. Without missing a beat in his delivery, Clinton announced 'now before you drown, I want to tell you-' and the audience burst into peals of laughter. To this day I have no idea what Clinton's last point was or how he ended the rally. I remember that joke.

At the time I didn't know much about the Arkansas governor with a ruddy face, raspy voice, and traveling dirt storm of scandals. But my instant sense was that this was a man who was very smart, very tired, and still managing to slip in a gag line about the approaching storm. I had never seen that pliable humorous side to the much-lauded Paul "I am not Santa Claus" Tsongas. When Clinton took almost all of Tsongas's economic plan and slapped his name on it, the esteemed Senator went after Clinton and slammed him in the debates. Even though he was completely correct in his charges, Tsongas came across as brittle, dry, rigid, and a nerd whining about someone trying to steal answers from his test. Clinton turned his economic forgery into a joke, smile, and a wink. His seductive smile at the audience while being attacked siad 'I'm a rascal, but at least I'm fun.'

One startling commentators don't make about presidential elections: the un-funny guy almost always loses. Examining the losing candidates in the TV age reads like a list of the overly serious, boring, humorless, and stiff.

John Kennedy's Harvard charm over Richard Nixon's self-loathing. Lyndon Johnson's Texas good ol' boy backslapping over the rhetorical straitjacket of Goldwater. Nixon was made funny only in comparison to his utterly hopeless challengers. Carter's peanut farm wit over the stiff Ford. Reagan's avuncular demeanor trumps Carter and Mondale. Dukakis's fascination with mushrooms makes George Bush Sr seem like an Apollo comedian. Clinton beats Bush. Then Bush Jr. beats Gore. And finally Obama easily surpasses the cranky McCain.

Barack Obama's humor is perhaps his greatest strength. Obama's biography reads like the archetype of the noble, but singular Black person in high positions. He's used to being on the only Black guy in the room. It goes without saying that there has never been a president who has had to do more to make people feel comfortable about him on a daily basis. He serves as an important case study for any minority or 'other' who finds themselves playing the ambassador.

There are times when I watch Obama and I want to scream: come on! Get angry! Throw something! His coolness can infuriate me. But behind his professorial detachment is a dry, sardonic wit. His 2011 White House Correspondence dinner speech trumped the hired comedian, Jay Leno. The next day, the media reports expressed surprise at how funny Obama was at the dinner. We now know that he was also overseeing the special ops high-risk raid on Osama Bin Laden's compound that same day he was joking about his birth certificate, deriding Donald Trump, slamming Leno for kicking Conan O'Brien off NBC, and Matt Damon for his performance in "The Adjustment Bureau." Yet it shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone that Obama can be glib, charming, sarcastic; often in the same sentence while keeping a cool poker face that doesn't betray a hint of worry.

When I was working on the Obama campaign in 2008, the staff had a problem with the Cleveland police. They were getting harassed by patrolmen. When the office opened and the staffers went to pick up the campaign van, the police pulled the vehicle over and confiscated when it was only a few minutes into its maiden voyage. The stories of police harassment became the stuff of folklore around the office. Rather than outrage, most people were tickled by the idea that they were doing something so important that it would attract what seemed like a concerted effort of law enforcement.

One night after another long day at the campaign office I was checking out at 2 am. I agreed to drive a fellow worker home so he wouldn't have to wait for the bus. As I drove out of the parking lot I noticed a car was trailing us. I made my way down the backstreets of Cleveland and became aware that it was a patrol car. My initial thought was 'nooo! Not tonight. It's 2 am.' The sirens started and the lights flashed. We were in a dark stretch of roads, covered by dense foliage. I drove a few hundred yards until I found a well-lit area and pulled over. I rolled the electronic windows down, took the keys out, aplaced my hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. I know the drill and didn't intend on getting an errant bullet for trying to grab my wallet. The officer and he asked 'why didn't you stop when I signaled?'

"I wanted to pull over into a well-lit area."

"You stop when I tell you to stop!"

I looked up at him for the first time. He was very young, no older than 25, white cop riding solo. His screaming didn't show power, but his worry and concern at pulling over a car with two passengers by himself at 2 am. Right then and there I became aware of his side of things. His fears, the bravado it took to walk up to a car at night, not knowing what or who is in it. Fortunately he had me and I had him.

I smiled confidently and handed him my license without saying a word. My passenger, a Black man, turned to the officer with rage.

"Is there a problem officer? What did we do?"

I shot my passenger a smiling 'shut the fuck up' glare and quickly returned my eyes to the young officer. He went to his car to run my identification.

While we were waiting, the two of us -both Black men- had a heated discussion. My passenger was from Trenton, New Jersey. He grew up around police brutality, had been harassed, unfairly handcuffed and humilitated. He couldn't understand my cool handling of the situation. I explained to him that I was and still am a Buddhist and a pacifist. I believe in karma and that everything happens for a reason. I explained to him what that young officer might be thinking every time he pull someone over, regardless of race. The fear, the anxiety, maybe he thinks of his wife and wonders if this is the last traffic stop. He is without a partner. It is 2 am, we are in a dangerous neighborhood with a high-rate of crime. In short we three men find ourselves on this dark road. And all of us just want to get home. We are doing the best we can. Furthermore I react with innocence because I have not done anything except to drive home as a law-abiding citizen exercising his constitutional rights of participating in an election. In fact, it is this officer's job to protect me. It is his job to make sure I get home safe, and I expect him to do that. If there is anything that comes up, then I purify and rejoice.

This is an excellent opportunity to practice my 6 perfections: giving, morality, patience, effort, concentration, and wisdom. We are practicing all of them right now in having this conversation. There are no accidents. We are learning. My passenger looked at me skeptically with a look that said 'yeah, we'll see negro!'

I cracked a joke about the police and about how we wouldn't have to go to work if we went to jail. Maybe we'd be able to sleep until 9. We started laughing. To myself, I did my mantras and mental purification.

When the officer returned, he was a completely different person. He was smiling, friendly, and moseyed up to our car with a sense of relief. He handed me my license back and claimed that my lights were too dim. They weren't but I went along with it, seeing that he needed some reason to save face. I allowed him to show me how to increase the lights on the rented car. I thanked him. He was smiling, I was smiling. My passenger looked like he was seeing a mircacle. We would all get to go home one more night.

As we pulled away, my passenger turned to me and exclaimed 'THAT. WAS. AMAZING." I thanked him for offering me a lesson by letting me drive him home. This was a very important night. We take for granted the miracle of safety, going home to our families, being Black in America. Tonight, we were grateful.

I think Obama's humor rubbed off on his national staff and trickled down on every level. I have never worked on a campaign where people dealt with continued adversity with aplomb and an almost British stiff-upper lip wit. These were Blacks, Whites, Indians, Latinos, married husbands, single mothers, gays, lesbians, rich New Yorkers who flew in, local who lived in squalor. There was this lightness and grace. What's even more shocking is that I never heard one person say a nasty thing about John McCain or the Republican party. These people were too busy working for change. I happily drove my co-workers home, ran errands with them, dined at Korean restaurants, engaged in vigorous political debates, and laughed.

The lightness of humor is a miracle. It is often forgotten but never lost. Obama's humor is that of Reagan, Clinton, and all enduring leaders. We can take encouragement that we all have this warm light of humanity. Humor is a gift.

Miami Heat's Title Run: Do or Die

No, we really mean it this year.

That should be the motto of the Miami Heat organization for its 2011-2012 campaign.

It would be a mistake to call Miami the most hyped team in the history of basketball. The Miami Heat are the most hyped team. Ever. Last year the expectations were to start off directly with a ring ceremony and then play the season as a 100 game victory lap. And they fell two games short of accomplishing just that.
Now that it's the start of an exciting new season, both Miami Heat fans and basketball aficionados can only say one thing about last year's failed title run: Thank Goodness.

Thank Goodness that the Miami Heat weren't reward so early for a half-finished product.

Thank Goodness Pat Riley's penchant for casting senior citizens in supporting roles wasn't justified.

Thank Goodness Erik Spoelstra's attempt at letting stars dictate coaching didn't get him a ring.

Thank Goodness King James didn't earn his crown for playing the villain.

Although we're still early into the new season, this year's Heat team has one important distinction from last year: it actually looks like a team. From top to bottom, changes have been subtly and overtly made to give a feel that the starters as well as bench players are working on the same goal.

Starting from the top, there is Pat Riley breaking free from the NBA nursing home and actually keeping young, bench players on the team. Terrell Harris, Norris Cole, Dexter Pittman and even the injured Mickell Gladness are aggressive, un-jaded and growing talent. At the gym you can imagine the difference in having the Big Three practice with players that actually want to learn and grow.

Much credit has been given to Norris Cole and he deserves it for his non-stop engine and play making. But another reason he's also playing beyond his expectations is because he's a 20-something guy from Cleveland State who is playing with freaking LeBron James and Dwyane Wade! That's like a community college graduate getting their first job at the White House. Cole is playing with the best and giving veterans new looks they haven't seen before, reminding them of what it looks like to go at 100 mph in practice.
During the monotonous grind of an NBA season, rookies need veterans to learn how to adjust. Veterans, however, need rookies to remind them of—as the motivational speakers would phrase it—an attitude of gratitude.

Last year's Heat often looked bored, tired and annoyed with the regular season. Yes, that feeling was mostly because of all the animosity they received on the road. But it didn't help that you had a team of veterans who had seen too many road trip grinds to care about the Washington Wizards, or even their first round playoff opponent. When Gladness gets healthy they will have another big, young body to push the pugnaciously pudgy Eddy Curry in practice...and maybe even toward the salad bar.

And still old habits die hard (along with Juwan Howard's career). Riley didn't completely overhaul his elderly cravings. He kept Howard as a statesmen and tutor and added the much-lauded Shane Battier. Some times the Battier compliments feel excessive. Yes, he likes to study and he works on his game. Big deal, that's what he's supposed to do. But then you watch the slow-motion replay of his overtime shot block against Joe Johnson and something sticks out. The positioning of his body, the movement toward the basket, the elevation at just the right time. Everything is perfectly played.

While Mario Chalmers is the gorgeous woman with bad makeup, a trashy dress and questionable decision-making skills, Battier is the cute girl who does everything right, even down to her picking the right nail polish. His game is tight and right. His meticulousness will certainly benefit the rookies. Even Chalmers, who shows signs of brilliance amidst bizarre turnovers and missed assignments, might accidentally pick up on Battier's consistency. If that happens he would become an All-Star point guard (stop laughing). That alone would make Battier's contract one of the best steals in recent history. 

The next part about being a true team is having a team coach. Much maligned and denigrated, Erik Spoelstra is a warrior of consistency. If anything he some times sticks to his game plan too long. There was a rigidness to his approach that bordered on OCD. When it was clear that the Heat would need a full-team effort, he stuck by his preseason reasoning of letting the Heat's speed and athleticism win out. In 2010 preseason interviews he confessed to scrapping his offensive designs when he saw in practice the cool toy Pat Riley had created. That was a shame because here is a little known secret about Spoelstra: he's actually a very good coach. He's certainly farther along in his coach learning curve than legends like George Karl or even Phil Jackson.

Spoelstra was in awe of the Heat's fast break potential and made a well-documented promise to his team: if you get a rebound or turnover you could do whatever you wanted at the offensive end. This incentive made Miami one of the best defensive teams and gave fans hours of alley-oop highlights. But the long-term effects were clear in the post-season.

In many games last year the Heat would go into an half-court freeze. LeBron or Wade would dribble the ball around for 18 seconds and then hoist up a dazzling but high-risk shot. During the timeouts, Spoelstra would try to gently direct his stars toward running an actual offensive set. The stars would humor the coach for a possession or two. Often, however, they would return to their highlight reel basketball. Against well-coached defenses the cracks became more apparent. This year is only nine games in and the Heat have yet to face a healthy Boston or Chicago, but there are encouraging signs that they won't return to xBox hoops.
Spoelstra has the potential to be a legend in his own time, instead of just Riley' mind. For proof of that check out the recent Heat-Atlanta Hawks game. With Wade and James on the bench, it almost seemed as if the coaching staff remembered what it looked like to design plays again and expect them to be run as is.

The Heat-Hawk's fourth quarter and overtime were a thing of coaching beauty, as Spoelstra smoothly switched between pick-and-rolls, double screens and iso-sets. You could see how one possession would set up the next...and the next. The Hawks players would take defensive gambles that played right into the Heat's play calling.
In a game that should have been a blowout win for the Hawks, they were schemed into a hard-fought tie at the end of regulation. That, by itself, was a moral victory, but then they kept scheming. If it wasn't for two consecutive Chalmers mistakes and rookie lapses, the Heat would have closed the game out in the first overtime. Instead it took an extra two periods and the Hawks surrendering at the end for the Heat to win. And it was a team win with an offensive and defensive game plan that back-ups carried out.

Better and more imaginative zone defenses won't allow for Heat freelancing this year. Spoelstra already knew this and the rest of the league is very aware. Finally it's the Heat players who are the last to receive the news. You have to play team offense almost all the time now. Call it pace-and-space or whatever you want, but fast-break and half-court offense has to fit into an overall vision to beat athletic, big-body teams that will clog the paint.

LeBron will have to put his Hakeem Olajuwon summer camp skills to use. The consistent post-up plays will be necessary to break the zone. And Bosh ain't doing it, so stop asking. The only one who has the body frame, vision and passing skills to do this is LeBron and he has taken up the challenge. While no one will mistake him for Karl Malone, King James has shown encouraging signs of basketball IQ growth. He's listening to his coach and it's paying off.

Last year was fun but left a bad taste in everyone's mouth. The Miami Heat were the cool, James Bond villain with amazing gadgets and a plan for world domination. They were fascinating, clearly intelligent and superior to almost everyone. But at the end you want 007 to beat the villain. The Dallas Mavericks were the slightly-goofy Bond with a license to kill the cackling Riley and his diabolical super team. Cuban and the Mavs played their part in a riveting drama that gave the NBA some of its highest ratings. But as basketball fans, it's always more fun to root for a team than to root against someone else's success.

This year the Miami Heat have a team that basketball fans can love and appreciate. They have youth, heart and ambition that could make a Cleveland fan stand up and cheer. Or at least grudgingly give a nod toward South Beach.

40 acres, Mule, and a Headache

My family has an itch for owning land. It's a traditional view of economics and wealth. We are told that real estate is always a solid investment. But it can also be a headache and a nuisance. Mema passed away a few years ago and left her house deed in the name of me and my sister. She was a hotel maid who worked tirelessly for decades, saved wisely, and was able to buy a house, retire, and live for another 30 years. My grandmother thought she was doing us a favor by leaving us the house. Yet me and my sister want nothing to do with it. We don't claim it on our tax forms, we don't have any desire to renovate or fix-and-flip the land. We have remained silent owners in technical name only while my Mom handles the house. Growing up we got a taste of what it takes to own property and to be a landlord.

There is something about the Squire name and owning land. We seemed fated to be in possession of land, lose it, and then get it back again almost against our will. The Squires were one of the few Black families in Florida to own significant amounts of property in Central and Northern Florida at the turn of the century. My great grandfather owned tracks of land that he developed into rough-hewn shotgun houses. He would set up a few tables, a simple bar, a piano and then be open for the business. Weekend and migrant farmers looking to drink, sing, and eat the weekend away would go to these makeshift houses.

My great grandfather would stock the houses with stacks of fried fish sandwiches, cheap liquor, and basic pianist. In a short amount of time he earned quite a lot of money, much to the annoyance of White families and farmers in the area. You could save he was rich in the traditional sense of the word: he owned land, houses, and had several successful businesses. But his life ended too soon. Mema said that her Dad got unexpectantly sick, while my other relative -Aunt Dolly- said that White people in town arranged to have taken care of in a discrete manner. Whatever the reason, the Squires were left without a patriarch and were accustomed to high-living. The property was quickly sold off, the businesses dispersed, and my great grandmother badly invested the money. Although they well-off they were never rich again. The children scattered across the Florida peninsula to different places. Mema (or Lynn Maddox) came down to Florida and began working as a maid in hotels. She purchased a house in Liberty City back in a time when the prices were cheap and the neighborhood was poor but safe.

Mema paid the mortgage off and was quickly in possession of property that took a price hit with the surge of riots and violence in the 60s and 70s. And the 80s. Liberty City was decimated but an enclave of older Black women still held on to their property through the chaos and violence. My grandmother was a part of that generation that is coming to a close right now. Emboldened by how deceptively easy it is to purchase Florida, Mema purchased some more land in more upscale Broward County. It was just a half acre with two houses built on it. She would collect rent from tenants. In theory this sounded like a good idea.

In 1973 my Dad bought 3 acres of land in the depth of South Florida. The land was so far south that the streets were numbered in the 300s and 200s avenues.  No personal addresses, just numbered plots. Once the highway ended, the drive was made on dirt and mud roads. His thinking was that development would be coming to South Florida's nether regions pretty soon and he could turn a profit by selling or developing it. Purchase price: $3,000. Given that it was $1,000 for an acre that was a very shrewd move on his part. In theory this too sounded like a good idea.

But what some times is a nice theory makes for messy business. By the time I was a teenager,  my Dad dreaded going to see the land. He was also now in charge of my grandmother's land.

Going to see the land involved steeling oneself. Occasionally my Dad would bring me along and try to make it fun or at least have someone to talk to on the ride over. The first time I went to see my grandmother's land I was shocked. It was a short ride from our home. Yet I wasn't even aware of it until I was almost a 10. We pulled up to the property and I was stunned. The houses looked like run-down shacks. I could feel the tension in the car, some times he would even take out a cigarette. He always kept a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment or in that no-man's land between the driver and passenger seat. Seeing him smoke was like seeing a full solar eclipse: something that only happened once every few years. If he was smoking, that meant something was working on him at a deep subconscious level.

I got out of the car the first time and didn't even want to enter on to the property. It was so awful, like some rickety dungeon erected in the middle of slum. But we opened the laughably pointless gate and walked up the steps. He knocked on the door and what emerged was some awful ancestor, some throwback to antebellum. An almost toothless Black rag of a woman emerged with a Southern accent so thick I thought it was another language. My Dad asked about the rent. Apparently they hadn't paid for a few months. The woman mumbled some excuse and my Dad nodded, not listening while both our bodies hedged backwards, hoping to end this exchange as quickly as possible. Then my Dad knocked on the second house. No one was home or they weren't coming to the door. Satisfied that he had fulfilled his landlord obligations, he circumambulated the houses. I asked what he was doing and he said he was checking for damages. Damages?!? The place was a disaster and he was looking for mold on the Titanic.

We got back into the car and left. I only visited the property a few more times before my Dad sold it on behalf of my grandmother. Good riddance. The city was beginning to fine and question them about the property. The owners were rightfully held responsible for the conditions but the tenants weren't making any payments. There was a minimal amount of money going out to fix the place, but no money coming in. It was real estate trap.

When my other grandmother passed away it was my Mom's turn. Yvonne was now in possession of this oddly shaped duplex. Annie Boston (on my mother's side) also worked cleaning houses when she moved to South Florida. She too bought land and home in Liberty. She too lived through the downturn and 30 year collapse of the Black middle class in South Florida. Her tenants were right next door. She divided her large house and had a wall put up that gave away a third to a needy renter. For most of her latter years she had reliable tenant living right on the other side of the wall. Grandmother Annie's reasons for buying were more interesting.

She moved to Miami from South Carolina, fleeing an abusive and deranged husband. In South Carolina she worked and earned a good living as a cleaning and laundry lady. They lived in a poor town, where the divide between Whites and Blacks was actually quite minimal. Everyone was too poor to care about race. They would hang around each other, Black kids and white kids, Black mothers and White mothers struggling to make a living. They would have stayed in South Carolina if it wasn't for Annie's husband. In retrospect, my mom said the man was probably clinically insane. He would bribe little Yvonne to make up lies about her mother and then fly into a rage at the contrived injustices before viciously beating his wife. One day when my mom was trying to remember the details about him she simply shook her head and repeated again and again 'that man was not well."

They left town late one night, hiding in the back of a pickup truck. I imagine her little boy laying down on the flatbed and staring up at the South Carolina sky one last time as a scared driver sped out of their small town and didn't stop until Miami. My grandmother got set up in a housing project and, being the entrepreneur that she was, began selling bathtub gin. The moonshine business was quite profitable for them and jealousy ensued as well as fear of having the cops raid their apartment. At that point, my grandmother decided it would be a wise time to invest that bathtub gin money into some real estate.

She bought a home and continued on with her entrepreneur'ing ways, free from the snooping eyes of apartment moms. By the time I was born the only thing I saw her selling regularly from her home were pig feet, pickled eggs, and candy. But I wouldn't be surprised if there wasn't some gin business going on. The only problem with the bathtub gin business in the 70s and 80s is that the government and corporations had taken over that racket in the Black community. There would be no room for 'bath brewers' when you could get the bodega down the block and get the commercialized stuff with the approved seal on it.

My mom said that she was sent money from Grandma Annie for her entire four years of college. Money would mysteriously come in the mail to cover her extra needs. When she asked where it came from, Grandma Annie claimed to have hit a lucky four-year streak of playing the numbers. I find that highly unlikely but I respect the testimony of the dearly departed. I will leave it alone out of love of my family. Besides, the main point is that after her passing, my mother inherited the house that had several cousins living in it. A simple agreement was made: just pay the bare minimum, the monthly fees to cover lights, water, and property tax. This came to roughly $400-500/month for a giant house with several bedrooms. My cousins couldn't keep to the promise and after almost 2 years of paying out of pocket, my parents were looking to get out of the landlord business. One of the deepest regrets is that a better way couldn't have been found in this situation. But my Dad was growing angrier by the month at the expenses and then the call for repairs which would cost in the thousands. He had my cousins evicted and then sold the property. His anger was frightening but his timing was perfect. The house was sold only a few months before the economic implosion. What was a $200,000 would only be worth $70,000 in a year. They managed to get out ahead this time and pay back all the expenses. The land went to a Dominican family as the Latino population is now the one buying up plots of land in Liberty City. There was no profits but there were also no deficits. And the only losses were our family connection to cousins who I haven't heard or seen in years. Apparently they live in far-flung southern areas of Dade county, almost near my Dad's 3 acres. But even that must go.

Unwilling to keep visiting the 3 acres and tired of waiting for that 'inevitable real estate boom' he sold the last of the family property to our Cuban mechanic who was homesick for a patch of land to farm. Apparently the land is now being put to use for the first time in decades. One day I would like to taste the fruit from that farm and know that in some small way I am connected.

Mema passed away and left the house to her grandchildren. Toward the end of her life, a man named John moved in as a roommate. John was a veteran kicked out of his house by his own kids. Mema took him in and let him sleep on the couch. She even encouraged him to fix up the bedroom of her husband. John preferred the couch and my Grandfather Opa's room remains a spooky mausoleum to this day. John saved Mema's life numerous times when she blacked out or her sugar sent her into a coma. This obviously endeared him to my parents and the rest of the family. When Mema passed away I dreaded the thought of having John move out against his will. My sister didn't want that eviction on her conscience either. At the same time we didn't want responsibility of up keeping the property he lived on, which is technically in our names.

For now the property is in limbo. John is able to scrape together enough money off of his meager benefits to pay for basic stuff. My mom splits the maintenance cost with him. Last year when a water line burst outside the house and flooded the garage, it took John days before he called. I can still hear the perplexed and peeved voice of my mom on the phone talking to this elderly and forgetful veteran. Those extra days wait costs hundreds in clean up and repair. When the cable stopped working or when city inspectors required the walls of Opa's vacant room to be gutted and reconstructed from hurricane damage, it was my Mom's responsibility to find the repairman, research costs, equipment, and then ensure the repairs were done properly.

If the responsibility of this land falls to me I wouldn't know what to do. Despite all my bluster and bravado, I turn back into that little boy when it comes to real estate: I find myself slowly hedging away from that dungeon.

H.N.I.C: Head N***a In Charge

Who is the HNIC? The acronym stands for "Head Nigga In Charge" and I must have heard it dozens of times a day from elementary school through junior high. On the school bus, in the parking lot, in the hallways. You had to prove you were THE Head Nigga in Charge. The contest was played among us Black exiles. We were the few, rare, M&Ms going to mostly non-Black schools in upper-class neighborhoods. I didn't find out what M&Ms meant until I became an adult, but apparently it stands for "mentoring minority' students. Far from being mentored, it felt like many of us were every day dropped off to fend for ourselves. Lacking any sort of social strata, we created our own with HNIC game.

I attended Highland Oaks Elementary and Junior High School. The elementary school was mostly Jewish, upper-middle class located in Aventura, Miami suburb located right on the county line. Going to school at Aventura afforded me the opportunity to receive honors-level education in a non-threatening environment. Since I was often the only Black person in the honors and advanced classes, most of my school friends were Jewish, Latino and a few wandering WASPs. I would arrive at school and partake on a weekly basis in two arts classes (painting and more creative construction), two music classes, advanced science, math, and even the physical education class had 'thinking' elements to it with learning new games and team structures. But all of my bus friends were Black.

Black parents chartered their own bus and paid the owner $20/week for each student. We had our own Jitney, or bootleg bus system. These buses were run by Black school administrators and teachers trying to make some extra money on the side. You get 20 students at $20 a week and you're talking about an extra $1,600 for a teacher struggling to get by on their salary or looking to purchase some Florida real estate to remodel and flip for a profit. There was a whole economic subculture to busing M&Ms that formed out of being the 'odd kids' out of place.

The bus ride to school would often take 1-2 hours, which meant I had to be up 2-3 hours before most kids to get ready and wait. The chartered van would pull up in the driveway and honk the horn. I would walk out and begin peeking into the window to search out the available seats. The drivers would pack us in so a modified van meant to hold 10 people, would often have 15 or 20+ students packed in tight. You were lucky if you got in early enough on the route because you could take a backseat. The seat farthest away from the driver afforded the most opportunities for card games, petty gambling, slap fights, and illicit show and tells. I remember one time a student on the bus brought a gun to junior high school. There was no malicious intent, but it was merely to prove how they were the HNIC. The news quickly spread when we arrived and by the afternoon the gun-possessing HNIC student was found by administrators. He was quickly expelled and never heard from again. It was, as Dave Chappelle would say, an example of what happens when 'keeping it real goes wrong.'

Most of the time the HNIC game never got to the level of guns or drugs. A student would declare "I'm the HNIC" and then have to back-up his statement with the action. Some times HNIC would involve telling the dirtiest joke or reciting the hottest rap lyric. HNIC would some times involve trying to shoplift from a convenience store the bus driver would stop at for a Big Gulp. This happened on two occasions by other students who were almost caught by the store clerk. The escape was seen as a victory for HNIC status. I never contributed to the HNIC game. I played the violin, attended honors classes, spoke in a non-regional racially neutral tone. There was no chance of me being the HNIC. No question, no debate, no possible challenge to the throne. I was an observer to the HNIC and would occasionally offer comedic parodies of my fellow busmates by pretending to shot someone, impregnate my cousin, and snort imaginary cocaine and then wipe my nose while deliriously screaming "I'm the HNIC!!!!' would laugh before quickly resuming their contest. I was comfortable with this and was afforded 'embedded observer' status. 

What scared me about HNIC was getting caught in the crossfire. I was an easy target for others looking to prove themselves HNIC-worthy and so I had to choose my defending moments carefully. I worried that the back of my head had a 'slap me' sign and I was careful not to turn my back on anyone. The best seats on the bus were those near a window or door. A student could coolly lean against the window without fear of a covert slap, punch or kick to their backside.

I kept a mental library of comeback, cutdowns, putdowns, insults to use like a sniper. If I was attacked by 2 or more students I would learn to laugh it off and then wait to get revenge on a one-on-one basis or just go after the weakest person. In one case when a few students decided to team up on me and insult my outfit, my glasses, my academic achievements, I found the weakest person in the group and immediately began insulting him, ignoring the other attackers. I continued attacking him until he was getting laughed at by his co-conspirators. On another morning a younger student tried to score points against me the moment I stepped into the van. I was too groggy to respond and he up'ped the ante by slapping the back of my head. I came back with a barrage of punches and verbal insults that left him in tears. Blubbering, he vowed to get his older brother to kick my ass. A very un-HNIC thing to say. He ended up regretting this as other students picked on him for crying and having to get his brother to pick his fight. This student left me alone for the rest of my time on the bus and was the very same student was expelled for bringing a gun.

We admired comedians, athletes, and rappers whose actions proved they were HNIC in their own life. When TLC's Lisa 'Left Eye" Lopez burned down the house of Andre Rison, her cheating NFL wide receiver boyfriend, that was a HNIC moment. Even though she said it was an accident, Left Eye got her a place in the HNIC Hall of Fame. Tupac Shakur got his place by getting shot in the lobby of a New York recording studio and surviving.

The HNIC game became this never-ending game of insults, fights, and swagger. As a result I grew farther apart from my bus mates as we entered our teenage years. I hated their ignorance, their need for recognition through violence, and their overall disdain for reading and education. I began leading a double life, one for my honors classmates and one for my bus mates.

In class I was known as student debater, violinist, and tennis player who played in weekend tournaments and even won a few. On the bus, I was the Oreo who wore glasses, read science fiction, and spent most of my time hanging around white kids. I would imagine our bus as the zoo-mobile: an ape show of stealing, cursing, and fighting on wheels. A traveling embarrassment of all the things my parents taught me to avoid at all cost and yet forced me to ride with every school day.

The contradictions confused and enraged me. I represented "Blacks" to most of my honors classmates. I served as the friendly ambassador explaining the mysteries of Kwanzaa or rap music. And yet I hated my daily interaction with Blackness via my ride to and from school. There was no one to confide in during these years. My parents worked late and were often running around helping the community through volunteering, church work, or helping out other kids. My sister was off leading her high school life. I was left to my own devices in figuring this out. I spent most of my non-school time alone. I was expected to complete my homework, warm-up dinner, set out my clothes, and prepare my lunch for the next day.

The HNIC game carried over into high school and adult life. I see it in hip hop culture, rivarlries, Obama's 2008 presidential campaign. When I find myself in the middle of an impromptu HNIC game I run as far away as possible. I have never been or desired HNIC status. Needless to say, I have kept in contact with none of my bus mates. The moment I got my driver's license and inherited my sister's rusty Mercury Cougar I never rode Jitney or any privatized bus again. Even when the car broke down, I would take the city bus and deal with the 2 hours and route transfers to get home.

I made a vow to get as far away from 'those people' and that game as possible the first chance I got. This turned into a deep-seated suspicion and wariness of any traditional Black organizations run by men. In my mind they were all playing some form of the HNIC game behind close doors.

Now I know that my fears were delusions of a scarred and scared nerdy Black kid. There are millions of other people who were minorities living as outsiders among their own culture. There's less of a need to HNIC my status when I find others who are like me regardless of race or class. I don't have to be in charge or anybody. Thankfully it's not my game to play.

2012 Prairie Home Companion

I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
 a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
 only an ocean of to-morrows,
 a sky of to-morrows.
I am a brother of cornhuskers who say at sundown:
To-morrow is a day.-Carl Sandburg's "Prairie"