Middle Passage Descendants: Negro?

Afro-American? BIPOC?

Negro“What Should You Call Middle Passage Descendants?” That’s the title of a recent article that Peter Feinman wrote in The Institute of History, Archaeology, and Education, which I receive regularly.

After an annoying, all-caps defense of his use of “HISTORICALLY ACCURATE TERMINOLOGY WHICH MAY BE OFFENSIVE TO READERS…” he discusses the historic use of the word Negro. This is not the first time he has tackled the subject.

He quotes Marc Lacey, the National Editor of The New York Times. “Everyone in this country who traces their ancestors back to Africa has experienced a panoply of racial identifiers over their lives, with some terms imposed and others embraced. In the course of a single day in 2020, I might be called black, African-American, or a person of color. I’m also labeled, in a way that makes my brown skin crawl, as diverse, ethnic, or a minority.”

Feinman’s primary point is clear. “The constantly changing name for Middle Passage people poses a dilemma for historians and museums… Do you use the historically accurate name from the time period of the people you are discussing – meaning the name they used themselves for self-identification – or do you use the name from the present and impose it on the past?”

With a capital N

Booker T. Washington called the Greenwood District of Tulsa, OK “the Negro Wall Street of America.”

In “What Thurgood Marshall Taught Me” by Stephen L. Carter, Yale School of Law (NYT 7/2021), he notes the first black SCOTUS justice “would answer that he’d spent his life fighting for the capital N in ‘Negro’ and wasn’t going to let a ‘bunch of kids’… tell him what he should call himself. Today we scarcely recall the titanic struggle over [the] capitalizing [of] ‘Negro.'” I had read about this, and it was indeed a BFD at the time.

Feinman quotes John McWhorter at length. “Yes, the word [Negro] should not be used to refer to Middle Passage descendants today, that would be ‘tacky.’ However, it is a historically-valid name that is not a slur.”

I was watching the PBS/Ken Burns series about Muhammad Ali. The boxer in fact did use the word Negro as an insult towards Floyd Patterson and other black boxing opponents that marketed themselves as the “real Americans”, presumably Christan. They would take down Cassius Clay, using a name the champ, who had joined the Nation of Islam, had by then rejected.

McWhorter wonders “What purpose does it serve to generate this new lexical grievance?… Does Black America … need yet another word to take umbrage at and police the usage of? Do we, in Black America, need fellow travelers — sorry, allies — to join us in this new quest, eager to assist in the surveillance out of some misguided sense that this is ‘doing the work’?”

Yes, we don’t need to change the names of the United Negro College Fund or Negro Leagues Baseball Museum. Of course, we ought not to change the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. from “Negro” to whatever term is more “current.”

My take on present usage

When I was growing up, one of my siblings used to nag my maternal grandmother every time she’d talk about “colored people.” “What color ARE they, grandma?” “Black.”

I grew up with the term “Negro” which got stretched to silly comments about how my knee grows to more, er, problematic uses. So I was cool with black, even though, FOR YEARS, people would, unsolicited, say that I wasn’t really BLACK, but more a BROWN, and white people were more a shade of PINK… Please stop.

I remember being corrected over a sociology paper in college that I should use Black rather than black, the logic being that it’s replacing Negro. OK, if I’m using White, I’ll use Black. But if I’m writing white, I’m also writing black.

African-American

I know that African-American resonates with a lot of people. When I worked the 1990 Census as an enumerator, one choice was “Negro or black.” More than one respondent replied, almost defiantly, “African-American!” That’s fine. But the word, as well as the briefly popular Afro-American, never resonated with me. Over the last half-century, it’s been even more problematic.

1. It is a very narrow term. We’re talking about black people from sub-Saharan Africa who are Americans. So it doesn’t mean Charlize Theron, who is a white South African actress and a naturalized American citizen. Or the black terrorist during the Charlie Hebo incident, described initially by CNN as an African-American, when he was Afro-French. Or a number of black people in the US who aren’t Americans at all.

2. It has too many syllables, 7 (or 5) versus 1. Black History Month flows a lot easier than African-American…

That said, I prefer it to the newish, labored term BIPOC. In addition to sounding ugly, it works so hard to distinguish the Black experience of Middle Passage Descendants from the Indigenous experience of being pushed off their land, from People Of Color, who are Hispanics or East Asians or South Asians et al., as though THEIR experiences are all the same. Meh.

Bloganuary Prompts from WordPress

que sera, sera

bloganuaryWordPress declared January as Bloganuary. I didn’t even find out until 2/3s of the way through the month. The idea is that one takes the prompt, writes about it, and attaches the Bloganuary tag.

Well, that’s not how I can blog these days, wake up to see what random suggestion I might take to. I suppose when I was first doing this in 2005, I would have leaped at the opportunity. Still, I liked some of the choices, so what the heck.

Write about a dream you remember

I’ve been writing about dreams periodically. One I had in January involved bowling. The ball landed in a manner that, when it reached the pins, it bounced, taking out the back pins first then the ones in front.

I’m sure it related to watching JEOPARDY and seeing this clue. “In 2021 Anthony Neuer, ‘The Ginger Assassin’, converted the first of these splits in a live TV bowling match since 1991.” Well, I have no idea who Anthony Neuer is. But I know bowling. It HAD to be a 7-10 split, and of course, Amy Schneider answered it correctly. I always wonder if others had rung in earlier whether they might have answered it correctly.

Write about what makes you feel strong

I generally know when to ask for help. I found myself in a very frustrating situation, not of my making. It absolutely took up far too much energy in my head, so I had to identify someone with whom to talk about it. I did converse with my wife, who knew about the situation, but then also found a need to vent to someone else. And it helped. A lot.

What is your favorite part about yourself?

I suppose my intellectual curiosity. Without that, I couldn’t write this blog at all. If I went into writing something on a daily basis knowing that I ABSOLUTELY know how I’ll feel in the end, it would not be that interesting to me.

What They Said

 What is your favorite quote and why?

After a ridiculously LONG thought process, I’m uncertain that I have one. Surely, I’ve been known for quoting lines from songs.
Cockburn: The trouble with normal is it always gets worse

King Crimson: Talk, it’s only talk
Babble, burble, banter, bicker bicker bicker
Brouhaha, balderdash, ballyhoo

Paul Simon: Slip sliding way. Slip sliding away. You know the nearer your destination the more you’re slip-sliding away… God only knows. God makes His plan.

MANY others. And most of them are not particularly uplifting, unfortunately. Inspirational quotes I have largely soured on, from ML King to Spider-Man, from vast overuse.

Movie quotes I used to do all the time in the 1980s. “What we have is a dead shark” or “We don’t need no stinkin’ badges” or “Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.” The only one that I know I’m using regularly now is “I’m walking here!” from Midnight Cowboy.

I considered Bible verses, but nothing grabbed me.

This can’t be this difficult…

Maybe Doris Day? OK, I’ll pick Maya Angelou. “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

A variation on the theme: “One of the saddest lessons of history is this: If we’ve been bamboozled long enough, we tend to reject any evidence of the bamboozle. We’re no longer interested in finding out the truth. The bamboozle has captured us. It’s simply too painful to acknowledge, even to ourselves, that we’ve been taken. Once you give a charlatan power over you, you almost never get it back.” ― Carl Sagan, The Demon-Haunted World: Science as a Candle in the Dark

Give blood – time #174, or so

vCJD

bloodI decided to give blood again on January 27 at the high school. I’m not certain how many times I have donated altogether. It may have been 172 times by November 2018. Did I donate in 2019? I KNOW I gave at least once before during the pandemic, also at the high school. So this past event was at least time #174.

As NPR noted, “Some hospitals say they’re rationing blood products.” Nora O’Donnell, the anchor of the CBS Evening News, said she’d donate for the second time as a result of the blood crisis. OK, time to return to the ranks of donors.

The school is in the midst of construction, so I needed a guide from the entrance to the gym annex. I “passed” the medical check-in, with my iron at 15.6, my temp at 98.3, and my BP at 123/73. My pulse was 86, probably based on walking there when the air temperature was about 5F/-15C; the pulse was 57 when I was home. To give blood, it has to be between 50 and 100. I saw two of my daughter’s friends, each donating for the first time.

When I got to the table where I would recline, I told the phlebotomist about how I have had some difficulty donating in the recent past because of the scar tissue that has developed near the veins in both arms. They said, “Do you want a supervisor?” I said, “No, I just wanted you to know.” Nevertheless, I ended up waiting for another person.

This went well because she poked me beneath the vein rather than above. Or something like that. It took the usual five or six minutes – I still have it! I got up from the table…

Plot twist

…when the fire alarm went off. Apparently, this had happened before because Alicia, the LIBRARIAN who was in charge of the school side of things indicated that they were prepared for this scenario. The protocol was that we should stay in place, even as I could see students pouring out of the building into the cold.

In fact, my daughter was incredulous when I replied to her text that we were still inside. Finally, after a fire truck arrived and ascertained the building wasn’t on fire, the students returned to the building even as I was trying to exit it.

I’m planning to donate again in a few months, certainly not waiting as long as I did this last time.

Here’s a real sidebar. When I donated in 2018, I wrote inelegantly on Facebook as though I’d donated 172 times in ONE DAY. I was playfully teased, but one of my Binghamton/Dickinson buddies vigorously came to my defense. Not that it was needed, but it was quite kind.

Damn mad cow

My wife still can’t donate blood because she spent a semester in England in the early 1980s. “In some parts of the world, cattle can get an infectious, fatal brain disease called Mad Cow Disease. In these same locations, humans have started to get a new disease called variant Creutzfeld-Jakob Disease (vCJD) which is also a fatal brain disease. Scientists believe that vCJD is Mad Cow Disease that has somehow transferred to humans, possibly through the food chain.

“There is now evidence from a small number of case reports involving patients and laboratory animal studies that vCJD can be transmitted through transfusion. There is no test for vCJD in humans that could be used to screen blood donors and to protect the blood supply. This means that blood programs must take special precautions to keep vCJD out of the blood supply by not collecting blood from those who have been where this disease is found.

“You are not eligible to donate if, from January 1, 1980, through December 31, 1996, you spent (visited or lived) a cumulative time of 3 months or more, in any country in the United Kingdom (UK)…” Alas.

Gay male donors

But the rules aren’t quite as stubbornly awful towards potential LGBTQ+ donors.

“The FDA guidance Revised Recommendations for Reducing the Risk of Human Immunodeficiency Virus Transmission by Blood and Blood Products’ states, ‘Defer for 3 months from the most recent sexual contact, a man who has had sex with another man during the past 3 months.’ All U.S. blood collection organizations must follow this federal requirement.” At least, this isn’t the rejection of all men who had sex with a man even once since 1977.

“The Red Cross recognizes the hurt this policy has caused to many in the LGBTQ+ community and believes blood donation eligibility should not be determined by methods that are based upon sexual orientation. We are committed to working with partners toward achieving this goal.

“We continue to assist in evaluating alternative donor eligibility criteria and the expanded use of new technologies to work toward the elimination of donor eligibility questions based on sexual orientation that would no longer be necessary. However, as a regulated organization, we cannot unilaterally enact changes concerning the MSM deferral policy.”

A song

Pete Townshend 

Soft Spoken, But Not

Art show

Soft Spoken But Not
Soft Spoken, But Not c LPG

Here is a piece of art called Soft Spoken, But Not. It was created by my daughter, who weaved it. She showed me the process but I can’t really explain it to you.

The angle of the photo may not give you a good vantage point, but the object is a megaphone. In fact, it is a replica of one she owns. (What? You don’t own your own megaphone?) Oh, here’s another shot, by the artist.

She bought it in the summer of 2020 when she and some of her friends organized and participated in demonstrations following the death of George Floyd. Ultimately, it became about other unarmed black people who died violently at the hands of authorities.

The rallies were about a block from our house, so occasionally her mother or I would participate, but it was mostly much younger people. What was fascinating is the response of passersby. Not only were they overwhelmingly positive, but they brought items. Ice cream sandwiches and doughnuts. Quite a bit of water, including a case from Sam, the son of a late friend of mine. And one woman, a stranger, brought my daughter another megaphone.

Display

From the Albany School District site: “Five pieces, created by four Albany High School student-artists, were chosen for display in the Art in Three Dimensions 2022 show.

“The juried exhibition, organized by the Capital Area Art Supervisors, runs Feb. 1-28 at the W.B. Haessig Art Gallery at Mohonason High School in Rotterdam.” This was cool.

In other daughter news

My daughter has been applying to college, eight of them, I believe. This involves, among other things, completing the convoluted FAFSA application for financial aid. She was accepted into four colleges and hasn’t heard from the others yet. As the above piece might suggest, she would like to combine art with some social justice and/or environmental angle. I will be extremely happy when this process is over.

My friend Mike Attwell, RIP

lives by the spring

mike attwell croppedI don’t remember exactly when I met Mike Attwell – the late 1980s or early 1990s – but I certainly know where. My friend, the late Norm Nissen,  and I played racquetball at the Albany YMCA on Washington Avenue.

Some combination of Danny, Charlie, Mike, and his co-worker Alan wanted to know if we wanted to play games with partners, two on two; or cutthroat, in groups of three.  We did, and from that point until 2010, when the Y closed, we all played about thrice a week with whoever showed up, which eventually included Tyrone and others.

You learn a lot about a person when you play racquetball with them. Mike wasn’t the fastest guy; that’d be Tyrone. Or the best (Danny or Charlie). But he may have been the most tenacious. When we played as partners, he’d almost always play the front, because he anticipated well and could get to a lot of shots.

But, in the earlier days, he was also the hardest on himself, often spouting an invective that included MF, always at himself. Interestingly, I think he played better after he stopped the cursing.

After the Y closed, he occasionally drove me to Siena College so we could play with some of the others, but it fell by the wayside.

Singing

In 2000, when I started attending First Presbyterian Church, I got to sing with Mike. I might have participated in a FOCUS service or two with him, but this was the first time on a weekly basis. 

You learn a lot about a person when you sing with them.  Mike, a tenor, was usually present unless he was traveling. He worked hard to get his part right. When the weather was lousy, he’d sometimes give me a ride home after choir rehearsal.

I got to see him in other aspects of church life, notably on the finances. He explained to the congregation the fiscal responsibility of the use of the endowment. This could be MEGO territory, but Mike, who dealt with numbers for New York State, explained it amazingly well. 

In August of 2003, he married Sue, again. They’d been married in a private ceremony six months earlier. But as the pastor noted at the time, they wanted to have a public event so their church family could be witnesses.

At the reception, Mike was discussing a nice resort in Poland Springs, ME that he thought my wife and I should go to. It didn’t allow anyone under 18. (I believed they’ve since changed that rule.) We went that very month and had a lovely time. No one knew yet that my wife was pregnant, so it was a particularly sound suggestion.  

Bible guys

After I retired in 2019, I joined the Tuesday morning at 9 a.m. group of Bible Guys. But when COVID hit, my daughter’s school was remote, so she didn’t need to get up as early. The two groups then operated on something called ZOOM(?), so I ALSO joined the Thursday at 7 a.m. gathering.

Mike Attwell was in that Thursday group. He shared a lot of his personal biography, from his roots to certain difficulties in his past. I did not know this: The meaning of Attwell is “lives by the spring”, as in water, which seems apt.

Though the facilitator rotated, it was always Mike, who introduced the group to John van de Laar, offering prayer by the liturgist. I suppose if I were to pick one for Mike, who died last week, it might be this one, which begins:

In the midst of grief, we choose to celebrate,

because it reminds us of hope,

and brings comfort to our broken heart.

Ramblin' with Roger
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