One Frequency Fits All: Kinda About Whitney Houston, Kinda Not

 By: The Ignant Intellectual

(originally published on www.ignantintellectual.tumblr.com)

Michael Jackson...Kurt Cobain...Amy Winehouse...Albert Einstein...Kanye West...Dwayne Michael Carter II…Van Gogh…Elvis…Bob Dillan…Edgar Allen Poe…Sylvia Path…Chris Farley…John Candy…Virginia Wolfe…Miles Davis…Billie Holiday…Mozart…Lauryn Hill…Whitney Houston…and the list goes on.

What do these people all have in common?

 Something I've always felt: The light of genius almost always seems to cohabit with darkness/battling demons.

Is darkness an inherent lover of the light of genius? How thin is the line between genius and darkness? Should parents accept that if their child is genius (not just really really smart), they were more than likely battle some form of darkness? Why are humans required to exist on a certain frequency instead of being allowed to create their own? 

Whether it’s social/environmental or physiological/chemical, one cannot deny that those souls that have the light of genius are almost always enveloped in some form of darkness—or what many call ‘battling demons’. It’s a relentless battle. One that if we could put on our spiritual shades, we would likely see a battle of epic proportions. I often see tormented souls and think, if we opened their spiritual chest, it would be unlike anything we have ever seen. And the thought of that being a daily existence but out of it comes the beauty and magic that pours from their minds. It’s a beautiful yet tortured thing. Or maybe it isn’t torture at all.

 My Spelmanite, Chaundra M. Hughes, made a most brilliant observation that I agree wholeheartedly with. She states:

The “darkness” comes from attempts to fit in, feel less, accommodate those on a different frequency and quiet all of the voices/inspiration. The light of genius shines so brightly, but not everything that it attracts is positive. It is a delicate, fragile balance but we are all transformed having come in contact with it. –- Chaundra M. Hughes

Oh what truth is in that statement! 

Initially I sat down to write a post about the passing of Whitney Houston. My reaction to her death is unlike my reaction to, say, Michael Jackson’s. When MJ passed, my tears did not struggle an escape. When MJ died, I was in a huge state of shock. I had thoughts like ‘not the King of Pop’…’Damn WTF’. But when Whitney died, I felt my heart break. My tears would not and still have not flowed. I felt like a family member had died and I don’t even personally know her. It was an experience that shocked even me. I had so many thoughts rushing through my mind. I was fixed to CNN. I grew sadder and sadder then angrier and angrier. I found myself yelling at the TV when they began their typical demonizing and assuming statements without a Coroner’s Report. I found myself pissed at how we are only just now celebrating Whitney. What happened to giving somebody flowers while they’re still alive?

If we put as much energy into someone’s life while they’re still here as we do post-them-croaking, we might ‘save’ more people. If we wouldn’t hand people scripts at birth and at random times in their lives and require them to stick to it, perhaps a divide would not develop. Perhaps if people were allowed to exist on a self-determined frequency and not be required to exist on the frequency of the masses, genius would not feel silenced, thus no battling. Sounds simple? Perhaps. I do know that it would require a GINORMOUS paradigmatic shift…in our thinking…in our being…in our creating.

As I am writing this post, I realize that it’s not just about Whitney. It’s about a collective forcing of spiritual beings who are having a human experience into being ONE monolithic way. It’s about a ‘one size fits all’ required existence. Perhaps if this was alleviated, we would still see this duality…this seeming battle. You’re right. But I argue that we would not see it ‘as much’. Seems unlikely.

I grew up on Whitney just like most of the people my age and older. She was timeless. She was regular. She was me. She was you. Damn! I bet there is a concert going on up there! Etta, MJ, Whitney, with Don Cornelius as producer! 

Bottom line: Let’s let people exist where they exist. Create what they create. And value the differences.

 --The Ignant Intellectual

2/15/12 8:22 am EST

The Ignant Intellectual is a New Orleans-reared writer, poet, and spoken word artist who has been writing before completely mastering the English language. From the accent to that je ne sais quoi that folk have been trying to put words to for far too long, to the curious name, The Ignant Intellectual is indeed a 'strange fruit'. I.I.'s goal in writing and performing is to deconstruct the many unconscious social constructions that guide our mental processes and ultimately our actions, to influence youth and elders to re-imagine what is, pushing/pulling the collective to our full potential. The Ignant Intellectual's vibrant, often humorous, and always though-provoking writings and performances convey that, "Life really is good enough to be true." And so it is.

Facebook: www.facebook.com/ignantintellectual

Twitter: @ignantintellect

Blog: ignantintellectual.tumblr.com

Radio Show: queer2thet.blogspot.com

Email: ignantintellectual@gmail.com

 

Saving All Our Love For You...NOW.

Sometimes, you’ll laugh.

And sometimes you’ll cry.

Life never tells us the when’s or why’s.

But when you’ve got friends to wish you well,

You’ll find your point when you will exhale.

Take these words in. Slowly.

Beyond measure, I felt like this week’s entry had to be dedicated to my distant mother, Whitney Houston. I never knew the woman personally, but her music has been a constant throughout my entire lifespan. Although throughout her career, she had many songwriters/producers/team of folks to keep her music as timeless as it is, it was her voice, her beauty, her strength throughout each stage of her life that kept every lyric ringing in our ears. And this song, “Exhale (SHOOP SHOOP), more than any, has been one I’ve revisited in every period of my own life, particularly my adult years.

I wonder if she revisited these words in her trying, often tumultuous public life. She must have known her friends and family were her rock, her shield from a bloodthirsty media that only thrives on negativity and people’s downfalls. Even in the liner notes of her 1999 album, It’s Not Right, But It’s Okay, she thanks Bobby Brown endlessly for being in her corner, and ends with “let’s give ‘em something to talk about.” To our eyes, sure, this was a fucked up ass relationship. But up until the end, they weathered an industry that rains down hard on its entertainers, with no umbrella in sight. Especially Black entertainers.

From ’92 onward, every magazine on the racks was dedicated to keeping Whitney on its covers, closely following her every move. Literally. If the woman sneezed, they snapped a photo with a headline of “WHITNEY ON ALL NIGHT CRACK BINGE.” The sensationalism caused all of us to get caught up in the ruckus, wondering “what happened? How could she let Bobby do this? She ain’t got no business smoking crack! Crack is cheap, crack is wack! Her daughter’s goin down the same damn path…” and so on. I struggled to remain neutral to the evil forces of the industry, knowing the damages they do to our folks, knowing they’re being scrutinized tooth and nail on every action.

As I got older, when I saw the headlines, I reverted to my four year old self, the one who first listened to her remake of Chaka Khan’s “I’m Every Woman”, who watched the video and wished I was one of the little girls with the fresh ass PCJ perms dancing around. She gave a timely reminder in the booming, independent ‘90s era that we can cast a spell, sure as you can tell. We are magic. We are POWERFUL. For every anthem she created for women in her early career, there appeared to be a headline, interview, or TV appearance countering it in her later one. At what point did the magic stop?

I personally don’t think it ever did. I do think there is danger in a public that catapults you to the top of an imaginary pyramid and tells you you’re the greatest, and dares you jump off. Dares you to make a human error. Dares you to fuck up, ever. No, you’re perfect! You should always be perfect. Be exactly who we want you to be. Don’t make decisions for yourself. This same public is what drove Whitney to use drugs in the first place, and criticizes her for doing so. I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t be driven to use, in order to cope with these insurmountable demands on your life, your voice, your body, your legacy? Doesn’t matter if it was crack, coke, pills, alcohol, weed, etc. Anything to numb the pressure.

Granted, at some point, drug use turns into its own issue. It’s of course amplified when your face ends up on the cover of every magazine in the aisle, saying you’re “spiraling out of control.” It’s quite easy to lose yourself in that industry period, as you are only a product who must keep producing “classics”. But it’s especially easy if your name is Whitney Houston. You’re pretty much damned if you do, or don’t. You're a black woman who’s defied the odds, made it out the hood, modeled, sang (and when I say sang, I mean saaaang), acted, and pretty much transformed an entire generation of sanga’s and musicians who want to sing, look, and act just like you. Even the “crazy” version of you (think of every parody you’ve ever seen).

Which is why it upset me so dearly to hear that she left us the night before that godawful excuse of an awards show, the Grammy’s. I wondered if the pressure of this, as she was getting ready for the pre-Grammy party, led her to relax herself in the bathtub…into the ultimate sleep. Not to mention, the pre-Grammy party didn’t stop for Ms. Houston, no sirree. Clive Davis’ old ass must have spent too much time preparing that he couldn’t stop folks from giving two fucks about the woman of the night. While her body lay cold and lifeless upstairs, the music kept pumpin, the bottles kept poppin. Respect my ass.

I swear to you, I never wanna be famous. Infamous, yes. Famous? HELL NO. You couldn’t pay me Jayonce money to do that. Because our Black entertainers not only have to entertain, they have to be our heroes. Whitney was our Superwoman: she was a quadruple threat. But that’s just the problem. She wasn’tSuperwoman. She was Whitney Houston, born August 9, 1963. A Black woman with a voice, one of the few who “made it” because of this voice. But as we have witnessed, this means nothing if you aren’t taken care of, and aren’t in full tune with yourself beyond your voice. She was strong beyond belief, but there's only so much one person can take. Family and friends sustained her, yes. But she was the one who had to bear the burden of her success.

What I take from her transition is the message that we all need to appreciate ourselves a little more. We need to keep folks around us who will remain supportive, to not pay a rat’s ass mind to drama, or folks that bring negative energy to our doorstep. We need to live out our passions, and ensure that our passions aren’t eating us, but feeding us. But above all, we need to exhale.

Whitney, thank you for all you’ve done for us. To those who are just waking up and realizing the damage they’ve done to you, who decided to apologize when it was too late, I say, It’s not right, but it’s okay. You are truly appreciated.

Love, the U.N.Eyewitness.

Get at Uni Q. on Facebook

We Are Not All Black in the Same Way (A Rant)

(Originally published here, at spectraspeaks.com)

Warning: This is a rant. AKA I’m pissed (enough to write about it), and don’t feel the need to explain myself further than this:

I’m Nigerian. I’m African. I’m Black. They don’t compete, they complement, which is why when I’m asked to silence one for the sake of the other, I don’t. This rant is a response to ignorant statements I’ve heard all month, like these: “It’s Black History Month, not Nigerian History Month,” “The reason one would cling to ethnicity is that they’re victims of internalized racism; self-hate for being black,” “Why do you feel the need to differentiate yourself by calling yourself Nigerian?” (wow).

So, I’m done with the placating diplomatic internet speak (for now). I think it’s healthy to reserve the right to throw a tantrum every once in a while. We’re all human. Especially when there’s this sanctioned idea that it’s okay to rant against white people but not ‘your own’ — which in itself is why I wrote the piece. Who decides who ‘my own’ should be? Who decides where I belong?

—

Dear American / Black Person / Over-Educated Academic, Who Seeks to Educate Me about Race,

Please don’t tell me I relate more to my ethnicity than my race because of internalized racism. I can’t tell you how infuriating this is. Displaying pride and passion about my cultural roots isn’t — and should not be taken as — an affront on anyone else’s. I’m proud to be Nigerian, period.

When you imply that the US framework for discussing race is the only framework that matters, you invalidate my experience as an African woman. I didn’t grow up here — by speaking as a Nigerian, Igbo-Rivers woman, I am merely staying true to myself and honoring where I came from, the same way I believe it’s important to never erase the history of slavery, colonization, apartheid, and other chapters of “black” history. It all matters, regardless of where or how my history has happened, and so I honor mine.

My mother’s people were killed for being Igbo, not for being black; I was bullied in high school for being African, and having an accent, not for being black; and while I won’t deny that I’ve experienced racism in this country for being a black woman, and would never downplay the solidarity I feel with women of color, racism is not my whole story.

I still get black people making derogatory comments about my “mandigo” African heritage. I still hear black people saying stupid things about immigration. I will not re-center my narrative to fit into your western framework about oppression from white people, because black people — and the idea of monolithic blackness that erases my cultural heritage — have been just as oppressive.

I am so very perplexed at your view that “north” american (since you keep forgetting that south america exists, and have appropriated “america” to mean just the US) discourse is and should remain the center of all conversations about race (a la “Let’s stay focused — it’s the US we’re talking about…”) especially since there are so many migrant groups in this “melting pot” such as (Black) Latinos, Haitians, African immigrants, other Caribbean folk etc who have also had to submit to the dogma of Blackness just to “fit in” to your imposed, binary conversations about race; one that perpetuates the unhealthy idea that the monolithic black american community has suffered the worst kind of oppression — that there’s an hierarchy of oppression in the first place; one that maintains that, if we are to engage in any discussions about racism, we will have to identify solely as “black” for the purposes of presenting a “unified front.” Forget being Nigerian, or African. Hell, forget being a woman. But f**k that.

I wasn’t viewed as black until the age of 18 when I arrived for school; I was Nigerian before then. Even still, I’ve only been Nigerian for as long as the history of colonization, but I’ve been an Igbo/Rivers matriarchal warrior way longer than that i.e before Africa’s colonizers draw squiggly lines on a map, designating me “Nigerian” for the purposes of dividing and conquering. And though you may not see it, being “culture-blind” is just another form of being “color-blind,” which we all know is just another way for oppressors to avoid talking about how they are actively or passively partaking in a racially oppressive system. It is no different for conversations about ethnicity. I won’t sit down and be black for the sake of fake solidarity.

Diaspora immigrants like me have our cultural reference points along the axes of nationality and culture — not just race — so please stop with the xenophobic, nationalist view of blackness, brownness, race etc, because we come in multiple shades, ethnicities, languages, and histories etc, and as a direct result, multiple and varied perspectives about oppression. It is burdensome to keep having to remind you about this, and I am so over it.

I’d rather teach race 101 to white people, than have to explain to one more person of color — the people who really should get it already, the people who I assume would be able to understand the pain of being continually silenced — that we are all not brown in the same way, in the same “American” way. I’d rather bury my head in the sand than listen to one more black person tell me “you need to learn your history,” when you know nothing of my heroes — the Margaret Ekpo’s, Ojukwu’s, Soyinka’s, Ngugi’s, and Adichie’s of world black history as I know it. We are not all black in the same way. Ethnicity matters (at least, to me). Can I get a month — say, Black History Month — off from having to explain this? That would be awesome.

Signed,

Over-Black-Dogma, Spectra

Nigerian Writer & Media Activist | Queer Afrofeminist Social Commentator | Creative Entrepreneur | Idealist Warrior Woman 

Public Service Announcement: Go learn some shit. (TBG)

 As Black History Month arrives (that’s your history, YOURS whoever you are) I always get a little antsy because I know damn well mufukas don’t give a damn about nobody’s Black History Month. I mean let’s be real. You sighed when you saw Rosa’s pick, didn’t you? Nevermind that she’s a fuckin G. The last time most of us did something usefully commemorative or intentional related to Black History Month was re-tweeting your conscious friend’s black history tweet of the day, listening to one of your cousins recite the I Have A Dream Speech or watching Roots on TVOne. And that’s only some of us. Most of us don’t attend events, make an effort to read/acquire information about our history or contribute to organizations that engage in strengthening communities. Some of us don’t even feel like we shouldn’t have to because we aren’t Black. Or you are Black and it feels cliché. It’s a joke with a punch line we all recognize (shortest month, coldest month…). But we are playing ourselves.

The truth is, we know less about our history than ever before. That’s you queer. That’s you white woman. That’s you transman. That’s you brown femme. That’s you prettyboi. That’s you black man...While we busy shittin on this month and hoping Rev J Jackson doesn’t accidentally rhyme any of his words or phrases and embarrass us in front of the white folk, history continues to be built and we lampin’ in the shade…with our natural hair and incense, all eccentric in our red black and green.

One BHM long ago, way back in the era of desktop computers and blue-screen phones I was in an undergraduate class where the professor asked us to list prominent black women of present day or the past.

“Do Venus and Serena count?” was the only submission after Oprah. An awkward silence filled the room like smoke and I realized that my professor was holding back tears.

I couldn’t comment then and I really can’t now. My blood pressure…it’s too much.

What makes me more stressed out than those ignorant asses in that class years ago is thinking about how this community, my community, our community of browns and tans and peaches and queers and allies would be hard-pressed to make our own list of people, places and things (without Google) that have built our histories.

(Also, sidenote: This isn’t about formal education. So don’t kick me no insecure, ‘oh, just cause you went to school blah blah…’ bullshit, I’m talking about paying attention to the world. Investing in learning about the people who have literally died investing in you.)

Understand that RIGHT NOW in Egypt (as I write this, who knows when you’ll read it cause I’m rambling) they are holding what people are calling a Million Man March. A revolution in Africa (or, ‘Middle East’ depending on your…politics) is unfolding and pulling straight from the pages of our Black History. This is it. Understand the way we impact the world.

(Sidenote number two: being knowledgeable is sexy. Not that pretentious name-dropping/fact-spitting mess, that’s stressful to be around and nobody likes you. But just carrying a living interest and awareness in the world around you ups your game 100%. Guaranteed.)

In order to really be about the shit you represent being about—smoke weed and rap about— wax mad poetic at potlucks and house parties about—there is a critical need to have information. Be consistent in the acquisition of knowledge. This month is about your history. It’s about understanding the laws that are being passed against you, that are being legislated in direct opposition to your life. It’s about learning who organized movements and led people who have granted us permission to live in ways we could never repay. This is us, man. We are the sum of all parts past, present and future. 

Real gangstas know real shit. Retweet THAT got-damn it. And go learn some shit.

-TBG @the_bad_gay

 

I also happily dole out suggestions for places to pursue aforementioned knowledge and information and welcome your suggestions too. Love.