He’s still my President. He gives me hope.
Commentary by Black Kos Editor Denise Oliver-Velez
As the United States spirals into chaos, with a dangerous, lying, racist, xenophobe at the helm, propped up by Republican sycophants and lackeys, I wanted to start the New Year off, back here on the Black Kos Tuesday’s Chile front porch with a reminder. In case you missed our return from the holiday break last week, please go back and read what our founder and Managing Editor Dopper0189 had to say in “Black Kos, New Year, same old opponent - The battle against political cynicism” (I hope he’s gotten over a bad case of the flu).
I can resist becoming a cynic for one reason.
I’m old enough to remember when we had a statesman at the helm.
A man with empathy, and intelligence. A man with a heart. Someone who made me really, really proud of my country, to paraphrase FLOTUS Michelle. That was not so very long ago, though these days a week feels like it lasts a thousand years.
I’ve been spending much of my time in this new year of 2020 tracking the news out of Puerto Rico. Was not surprised when I saw this tweet:
Meanwhile, The Orange Pendejo hasn’t signed the major disaster declaration, and his minion Ben Carson hasn’t released the $18.5 billion awarded to Puerto Rico for recovery.
This would not have been the case under POTUS Obama.
I wax nostalgic for a reason. We can do it again, though the current Democratic candidates roster has whitened that potential out — for now.
I’m debating if I’m even going to bother to watch the debate tonight.
Since there is no hope of having a Harris, or Castro, or Booker as our next oval office occupant, I’ll work hard to get a Democrat in that seat, and look forward to 2024. Perhaps we’ll have a black woman or Latino who has a shot at filling Barack Obama’s shoes, and take us to higher ground.
Meanwhile, I hope the Obama’s getting an Oscar nom gives the Orange Dirt-bag gastritis.
Till then, I can dream. Share some of your Obama memories in comments. Keep the dream alive.
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In Just Mercy, when attorney Bryan Stevenson (Michael B. Jordan) arrives in Monroeville, Alabama, to take the case of a wrongly convicted black man, Walter McMillian (Jamie Foxx), the local white officials who stymie his every move toward justice keep proudly asking him if he's visited the To Kill a Mockingbird museum, since this is the town where the story is set. No one seems aware of the irony of championing a story that attacks racism while they are fiercely committed to furthering it. That discordant motif establishes the real conflict in this and other legal dramas about racism (Marshall, Ghosts of Mississippi, Amistad, A Soldier's Story): Movies extolling racial tolerance are dusty museum relics that exonerate us from the responsibility of fighting current injustice.
Movies about racial injustice can make us feel like we're being scolded more so than other kinds of legal dramas. Dark Waters exposes corporate greed. The Verdict reveals infamy in the Catholic Church. The Rainmaker shows the callousness of insurance companies. These villains are faceless entities sequestered on top floors of tall buildings. Pharmaceutical, tobacco, energy and Wall Street companies destroy the health, lives and finances of millions of families. They get heavy fines and we feel some sense that justice has been done, even though we know that those fines barely affect their bottom line and that those responsible for these evil acts go merrily home at night to their mansions. PG&E was the villain of 2000's Erin Brockovich, having to pay $333 million to the people whose water it knowingly contaminated with hexavalent chromium. Did the company learn its lesson and become benevolent? In 2019, it filed for Chapter 11 as a result of its alleged $30 billion culpability in California wildfires. The bottom line is the villain in these legal dramas and the bottom line cannot be vanquished.
But films about racism are more intimate in their accusations because we know that racism can't flourish without the indulgence of the people. Its mere existence is an indictment of all of us: We're not doing enough to choke off its oxygen. That's not a scolding but a reminder that, though some may not be directly affected by racism, millions are. It's the American ethos to insist that everyone is treated fairly and has equal opportunities under the law. To stand by and do nothing — or worse, insist that inequities don't exist — makes us complicit.
One genre convention that allows the viewer to ignore responsibility is setting the story in the past. When the wrongfully accused black men in Just Mercy and Marshall are freed at the end, we can rejoice that the bad ol' days of open racism are over. We are redeemed, hallelujah! At the same time that the movie is telling us about the overwhelming foundational racism in our judicial system, it implies that justice will always prevail, that faith in the American judicial system will be rewarded — eventually. This hyperbolic fantasy distracts us from the real point of legal dramas about racism: In our law books, justice is indeed blind to personal bias, but in practice, the law defaults to its practitioners' prejudice toward race, social class, gender, nationality and religion. That's why the Trump administration has devoted so much effort to appointing judges who carry Trump's values. He has seen 187 of his nominated federal judges approved, including 50 circuit court judges, more than any other recent president. That is how systemic racism is silently and ruthlessly perpetuated.
Just Mercy, which opens nationally Jan. 10, is a riveting, infuriating and inspiring story that focuses on three black men on death row, two of whom are innocent of any crime and a third who, if he were white, never would have received the death penalty. While the movie details how race led to their wrongful but inevitable conviction, it also warns of the dangers and inadequacies of capital punishment.
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For Oscar voters, what makes a great performance has disturbingly narrow criteria for non-white performers. The observation that people of colour are only ever recognised for playing slaves and criminals, that their stories are only ever seen as important when they deal with tragedy and suffering, does not strictly belong to the unenlightened past. This week’s Oscar nominations prove that such judgments are planted firmly in the present.
The kinds of roles being written for people of colour over the past decade have begun to expand to encompass a wider range of experiences. Just recently we were graced with the luminous Jennifer Lopez as savvy stripper Ramona in Hustlers; newcomer Nora Lum (Awkwafina) as the conflicted granddaughter of a dying matriarch in The Farewell; Lupita Nyong’o in a remarkable two-in-one turn in Jordan Peele’s Us. This all goes without mentioning the incredible performances that never quite picked up steam: Alfre Woodard in Clemency, for instance, or Song Kang-Ho in Parasite. But never mind the fertile pickings. This year the Academy has nominated one person of colour – Cynthia Erivo as Harriet Tubman in Harriet. This outcome is dismaying, partly because it falls neatly into a familiar pattern: a person of colour performing a racially specific form of suffering, the outlier in a sea of white nominees.
Erivo’s nomination for Harriet, a film that received middling reviews, is not a preposterous decision. Actors are often recognised for individual work that might stand out in an otherwise mediocre film (take Renée Zellweger in Judy). I’m not bothered by the quality of Erivo’s performance. There are far more egregious entries on that front, with the likes of Charlize Theron for Bombshell, or Scarlet Johansson for Jojo Rabbit, reaping nods (have the Oscars ever been a legitimate meritocracy?). Far more worrisome is what Erivo’s nomination suggests about the way Academy voters evaluate performers of colour, who seem to be the most visible, and taken the most seriously, within the trappings of white pity.
That voters overlooked a performance like Nyong’o’s in Us, a chilling interpretation of two sides of the same self, is telling. It doesn’t matter that this performance matches, if not surpasses entirely that of Joaquin Phoenix’s in Joker, even though both actors play, with tremendous physical commitment, psychologically tormented characters in genre films. Instead, the Academy prefers the Nyong’o who starred in 12 Years a Slave (2013), a film in which she is a slave, raped and humiliated. For these efforts, so difficult for the conscience to ignore, she was awarded best supporting actress.
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Port-au-Prince, Haiti— Standing in front of the earthquake-ravaged Notre-Dame Cathedral of Port-au-Prince, Ketly Paul looked at the faded ruins where stained-glass windows and pews once stood.Haiti’s devastating January 12, 2010, earthquake claimed an estimated 316,000 lives, left 1.5 million injured and another 1.5 million homeless when it struck 15 miles southwest of the capital.But Paul, like many Haitians, thought the flood of humanitarian aid and $13.3 billion pledges from the international community would rebuild the cathedral, secure housing for her after her home collapsed, and make life better in the volatile nation.
Instead, ten years later, Haiti remains a long way from recovery, mired in political conflict that has bankrupt businesses, soured the economy, and dampened the enthusiasm of foreign donors who once rushed to help with its reconstruction.
While the rubble and makeshift tent cities that once blanketed Port-au-Prince are gone, some have turned into permanent settlements with no power, no sanitation, no security, for more than 32,000 quake survivors.Two of the country’s most iconic structures—the cathedral and the presidential palace—still have not been rebuilt. And six years after construction began on a new $100 million public hospital, promised by the United States and France, the complex remains an empty shell, the work temporarily halted due to a dispute over money.
Paul, a 47-year-old mother of five, still finds herself living under a tarp just steps away from Notre-Dame. Few permanent houses have been built and the debate over how much of the aid came—and where it went—persists. Instead of the bright future that many envisioned after the 7.0 magnitude quake, Haiti is now undergoing one of its worst economic downturns as widespread popular discontent engulfs the impoverished nation, and Haitians increasingly lose faith in political leaders.
Before the earthquake, things were looking up in Haiti. The economy was improving, foreign investors were considering investment opportunities and Haitians themselves were feeling hopeful about their future. (See pictures of Haiti on its own terms.)But political dysfunction worsened after the disaster and the two presidential and legislative elections that would follow. That dysfunction eventually impacted the pace of the recovery. Public outcry over corruption resulted in a radical display of discontent that three times in 2019 led to a complete shutdown of the country.Known as ‘Peyi Lòk' in Creole, the countrywide lockdown consisted of anti-government protesters barricading streets with burning tires, boulders, and anything they could put their hands on to prevent movement in and around the capital, and between cities. In the process, students lost more than 50 days of schooling, hotels shut down and laid off workers, and a humanitarian crisis ensued.Fueling the growing discontent: an anti-corruption movement spurred by $2 billion in aid Haiti received from a Venezuela oi program that was supposed to be invested in post-quake projects that government auditors said was embezzled.On the tenth anniversary of the quake, Haiti appears to be approaching a deeper crisis. It will be without a functional Parliament or government and its president will be governing by decree. Meanwhile Haitians like Paul are struggling to survive. An economic crisis—prompted by the devaluation of the domestic currency, scarcity of U.S. dollars in the face of declining foreign aid, and the departure of UN peacekeepers after 15 years, as well as mismanagement by the government—has led to fuel shortages, skyrocketing inflation, and deepening poverty. Anti- corruption protesters shuttered schools and businesses in 2019 and blocked major roads for months. With more than 100,000 buildings including all but one government ministry collapsing in 35 seconds during the quake, Haiti faced a difficult road. But the multiple crises, coupled with what some call Haiti fatigue by donors, have made progress even more difficult.“As a nation, as a state we have failed,” said Leslie Voltaire, an urban planner and architect who was among those involved in the early days of the recovery.
The failures are apparent all around Port-au-Prince, where even in the successes there are setbacks.After the quake a number of new hotels were built and made quake-resistant even as the country’s Parliament parliament failed to approve a national building code. But as last year’s political crisis paralyzed the country for a third time in months, at least one of those hotels, the Best Western, announced its closure while others quietly laid off staff.
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It’s the stuff romcoms are made of: beautiful young woman meets charming prince and, after a series of mild miscommunications, they live happily ever after. Well, that’s how it’s supposed to go at least. Meghan Markle, the much put upon protagonist of this Nora Ephron-meets-Get Out fairytale, has gone off-script and attempted to create a different happy ending, and with good reason.
Everything that could have predicted the pair’s joint decision to step back as senior royals can be directly traced back through all the sensationalist and derogatory headlines written about Markle. She couldn’t even enjoy avocados without being framed as a drought- and murder-fuelling traitor, set on bringing down the monarchy. Harry, to his credit, has been by her side every step of the way, challenging traditions by demanding an end to the tabloids’ abuse of her, which sadly had little impact. If anything, it gave the news cycle more to talk about – but his actions were nonetheless commendable.
Harry has never been comfortable with his position as royalty, and as the burden of one day becoming king was on his older brother, he was given the opportunity to be more open about his world. The death of Princess Diana was something her children never truly recovered from. Growing up, Harry definitely committed his fair share of disturbing faux pas, but this week it has been hard not to root for him as a husband and father trying to protect his family from falling victim to the trauma of his own childhood.
When Markle stepped out of Hollywood and into the royal family, press coverage was awash with weak platitudes of progression: we were fed the idea that her move into the institution was a sign of “modern times”, and that having a mixed-race woman in the royal family was a milestone in British history. Their wedding, just a year and a half ago, featured preacher Michael Curry and a black gospel choir; the media described it as a “modern, diverse wedding for a modern, diverse couple” – one that was “nudging the British royal family into a new era”. News outlets speculated on everything from whether the wedding would end prejudice against mixed-race relationships, to whether it would boost business for black female entrepreneurs. But it didn’t take long for the tabloid onslaught, or for Markle’s mere existence to become a tokenistic rhetorical device for those who claimed our country didn’t have a problem with race. How could we possibly be racist if we have a black princess?
As a successful, mixed-race woman from California, Markle became the media’s new punchbag, and her family weren’t spared media intrusions either. The contrast in treatment towards each of her divorced parents, however, was glaring: dog-whistles for her black mother, and sympathy for her white father. In her time in the public eye, Markle’s mother Doria Ragland has been a picture of dignity, yet was still the constant victim of coded racism, in the form of inaccurate references to slavery and gang violence. Meghan’s father, Thomas Markle, was gifted a little more empathy by the tabloids, often portrayed as a lovable rogue disowned by his “heartless” daughter, even though he repeatedly betrayed and embarrassed her on the international stage. All the while, this racist and sensationalist reporting stoked tensions on social media, and bigots and trolls felt vindicated in their racism.
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League policy requires teams to interview minority candidates for top jobs, but one rule doesn’t make up for deep-seated prejudice. The Atlantic: NFL Owners Have a Problem With Coaches of Color
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Last month, a nonprofit think tank published a study about the black experience in corporate America, and the results were what one might expect. Black professionals largely feel invisible, receive less support from upper management than their white counterparts do, often experience subtle and overt racism on the job, and are discouraged by the lack of opportunities for advancement.
Had the Center for Talent Innovation surveyed black coaches who hope to be head coaches in professional football someday, the researchers would probably find the exact same problems.
Currently, only three of the NFL’s 32 teams have black head coaches. In the past three years, 19 head-coaching positions were available, but just two black coaches filled those openings.
This hiring cycle has been particularly cruel to black coaches. Five head-coaching jobs were available, and so far, not one has gone to a black candidate.* (The Cleveland Browns are the only franchise still looking for a head coach.) Year after year, the hiring pattern shows the ineffectiveness of the league’s Rooney Rule, the policy the NFL instituted in 2003 to address the racial inequities at the head-coaching level.
The Rooney Rule, named for the former Pittsburgh Steelers owner who led the committee that proposed it, requires teams to interview at least one minority candidate for head-coaching jobs and executive positions. While well intentioned, this policy can’t possibly fix the deep-seated culture of exclusion that plagues the league.
More than half the players in the NFL are black, and most coaches have played the game at some level. That would seem to be the perfect recipe for black coaches to find success. But most NFL owners have been white men, and they have seldom been willing to let African Americans or Latinos call plays—either on the field or from the sidelines. This is no different from when franchises presumed that black players weren’t smart enough to play quarterback and lacked leadership skills to command men. The league’s paltry record of hiring minority head coaches comes from the same mind-set. And its primary effort to address the problem has been a failure, because a policy can’t compensate for ignorance.
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Voices and Soul
by
Black Kos Poetry Editor
Justice Putnam
On the evening of 4 June 1968, at the age of thirteen, I accompanied my father to the Ambassador Hotel in downtown Los Angeles. For several years, he had been writing policy and research papers for the California State Democratic Steering and Platform Committees. I had walked precincts and volunteered at the Kennedy Campaign Headquarters in the San Gabriel Valley for the preceding two months, so as a sort of reward, I was allowed to stay up past my regular bedtime to go with my father to what was, we were certain, to be a victory celebration.
Dad and I had been at the Ambassador since around 8:30 pm It was a huge and boisterous crowd. Normally, I retired before 10 pm, so by the time Kennedy entered the ballroom around 11:30 pm, I was pretty bushed. His speech would be broadcast on the radio, so Dad and I headed home. On the way, we heard Kennedy and five others had been shot.
I was at a department store near our home, in the television department when the news of Martin Luther King's assassination was broadcast on 4 April 1968. Dad had been teaching his history classes at Cal State Fullerton that day and evening, and had not heard the news, so my revelation was the first he had heard of it. I never had seen my Dad cry, but he teared up when I told him. At that point, I had been a Eugene McCarthy aficionado, but I changed allegiances after listening, with my father, to Kennedy's speech in front of a black audience in Indiana, informing them of MLK's assassination.
On the night of 31 January 2008, I was on a San Francisco BART train from Berkeley heading to my overnight stint at the small hotel on Nob Hill I worked at, I was taken aback by how aggressive the cops were on the train. It seemed like they were a powder keg and it put a pall on the New Year festivities. Later, the next day, I was terribly saddened, but not shocked when social media exploded over a shooting at the Fruitvale Bart station. It seemed Oscar Grant loosely fit the description of a young black man in America, a supposed sympathizer to the Thug Life and a threat to the community, the nation and the world, and so Oscar Grant was shot in the back by Police in those early morning hours of 1 January 2009, while laying face down on the Fruitvale BART station platform.
I often wonder when true Freedom will come. I don’t mean the unshackling from this mortal coil, no, I’m talking about true Freedom, here and now. And I’m not talking about myself. I have all the freedom in the world and can do anything I want whenever I choose. I’m wondering about when true Freedom will come. A seed was planted long ago, and it wasn’t planted by me. It was planted by all of us.
Freedom will not come
Today, this year
Nor ever
Through compromise and fear.
I have as much right
As the other fellow has
To stand
On my two feet
And own the land.
I tire so of hearing people say,
Let things take their course.
Tomorrow is another day.
I do not need my freedom when I’m dead.
I cannot live on tomorrow’s bread.
Freedom
Is a strong seed
Planted
In a great need.
I live here, too.
I want my freedom
Just as you.
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