A Call to Relevance

Young Atticus
Exclusive to the St. Louis American and
www.cleanandarticulate.com

Last week I watched the opening of the 98th annual NAACP Conference in Detroit, as our most venerable organization continued to prove itself a farcical shell of its former self.In front of a huge crowd, the brass of the NAACP staged a funeral - casket, eulogy, dirges and all - for the N-word. The organization conducted the ceremony in an attempt to lay to rest what the Rev. Otis Moss Jr. called “the greatest child that racism ever birthed.” Amid cheers and cliché-filled speeches by the important and the self-important, participants dug a hole and laid a tombstone for the N-Word.Wow.

A few years ago when I joined my local African-American bar association, I wondered aloud if such organizations were still relevant. The question of relevance is not to be confused with necessity; I continue to believe that specific affinity and support groups are abundantly necessary in a variety of aspects of American life, where minorities remain underrepresented and unprotected, even exploited.But an honest and critical critique of our most recognizable organizations must lead one to wonder if our institutions are still relevant. Does anyone care what the groups have to say anymore? Does anyone care what they do? And if, as I fear, these questions are properly answered in the negative, then why are they no longer relevant and in turn respected, and most importantly, no longer effective in reaching their stated objectives?

To be blunt, on a national and local level the NAACP's leadership is old, and consequently, its methods are antiquated. It is outfitted with Civil Rights Movement leadership for a post-civil rights America. This is the only way to explain the total lack of substance we saw at this year's opening ceremony. What does a funeral for the N-word prove? What did it accomplish?Realistically, the cause of purely race-based civil rights in the African-American context has progressed as far as the law can take us. Save for reparations, there is very little room for argument that pervasive and ongoing discrimination exists that is per se discriminatory toward African Americans. This has stripped some purpose from one of the NAACP’s most prolific and effective departments, the Legal Defense Fund. Nevertheless, the organization as a whole has failed to develop current means of evolving and addressing current, more subtle ills, such as the digital divide, environmental racism and predatory lending.

It's not just the NAACP. Our local vanguards are irrelevant as well. I can be as black, as proud, and as militant as they come in my personal deliberations; but I can no longer subscribe to the local modules of thought and organizations that have my people shouting "no justice, no peace" when there has been neither an injustice, nor a reason for thoughtless breach of peace. I can't stand with a people who use the word "cracker" and deride Jews with impunity simply because their ethnicity provides a presumption of enemyhood.

If the methods of the movement are outdated, then what is potentially effective? Negotiation. Cooperation. Well researched and well prepared litigation where necessary. Properly timed and expertly placed advocacy. Building friendships across the proverbial aisle, rather than alienating the ostensibly different before any true examination takes place, is paramount.

Similarly, if worn out methods have rendered our institutions irrelevant and ineffective, who or what remains relevant and effective?Donna Brazille is relevant because she thinks and evaluates before she advises and acts. Matthews Dickey Boys and Girls Club of St. Louis is relevant because it has consistently sought aid and friends from all over the demographic spectrum. Jim Clingman and the Black Million Dollar Club are relevant because they recruited thousands of donors nationwide via e mail to give $5 every month to a different chosen charity. The elder on the street who pulls a young buck to the side and talks with him instead of preaching at him is relevant.

We can no longer afford to cede our most vaunted institutions to the same leaders, the same methods, and the same ideas that we have employed for the last 60 years. To do so will inevitably result in the continued stranglehold of the faceless demagogues who can shout the loudest and rhyme the best, and the continued tragic spiral of our once brightest organizational hopes toward irrelevance and eventual obscurity. Visionary leaders and motivated servants must step forward to take the reins. If not, then the next funeral will not be symbolic, but an actual homegoing for the NAACP itself.

IN THE FED

Young Atticus is back. Please forgive the hiatus.

I was in the United States District Court for the Eastern District of __ today. Nothing big, just a quick routine motion that the higher ups wanted me to handle, likely becase they are too expensive to focus on something so inconsequential. Whatever.

Anyhow, practicing in the fed makes you feel big time, as far as lawyers go. It's in direct opposition to the antiquated and ill equipped state courthouses. In any given town, the fed is laced with high tech flat screens, state of the art security, and rich mahogany all around. Fed courts are very cool looking in general, and my local joint is pretty new, making it even more regal.

So I get up to run my motion. As usual, room full of white folks. The judge was a respected and veteran black jurist, an aging star of the local bar who I have met many times. While I was arguing, my peripheral caught a glimpse of guards leading a prisoner into the on deck circle; I reckoned that his matter would be called next. My man was shackled, orange suited and all.
I finish the motion, and approach the bench to get his honor to sign off on some docs. I glanced at the cover of the file for the next matter, the prisoner. His birthdate was on the cover, 9/18/79, exact same as mine.

I watched the beginning of his matter, a routine bail reduction thing stemming from his possession charge. I certainly don't think that this guy was an uber villain, he probably wasn't even a career criminal. Again, room full of about 30 white people, and three blacks, each being in some way, the man of the moment: myself, the prisoner, and the judge.

All this buildup to say that I couldn't help but think at what point did I zig, and the inmate zag? Had I been privy to some life benefits that he had not? (Probably so, but that certainly assumes that he fit the criminal archetype. Which assumes that he is correctly characterized as a "criminal", and was not falsely accused.) What did I decide to do that he had not chosen to do? When did this decision happen? And what to make of the judge, who was at least 30 years older than both of us? Does the judge's position negate any hardship that the inmate could have claimed, in light of the fact that the judge was likely a trailblazer of some sorts? How did the judge view the two of us; both inheritors of the civil rights movement, the same age, crossing paths before his bench in such opposite ways?

As usual, no answers, just questions.

God Bless Wesley Autry

A man amongst men.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n4GaStsLadQ&mode=related&search=

It's Now or Never for Barack Obama

It’s Now or Never for Barack Obama

Young Atticus, Esq.
Special to the St. Louis American


Illinois junior Senator Barack Obama is the biggest, most popular politician of our lifetimes not named Bill Clinton. Since he exploded onto the national scene with a legendary keynote address at the 2004 Democratic National Convention, Obama’s meteoric rise to stardom and widespread political respect has been unprecedented. At the height of his own popularity, not even Bill boasted such universal approval across the defining demographics of race, gender, region, and religion that is endemic to the Obama mystique. While much of his charm comes from his “everyman” story, he has proven to be a reasonable and moderate voice in his brief time in Washington.
In an October 2006 appearance on Meet the Press, Obama did not declare his candidacy for the White House in 2008, but opened the possibility of making a run. In the two months since, Obama has behaved like a presidential hopeful, making public appearances in early caucus states Iowa and New Hampshire, and delivering speeches before key interest groups such as the Chicago Council and the Global Summit on AIDS and the Church. Politicos and pundits have filled op-ed spaces and hours of airtime with speculation on whether he would run, and more importantly, musing on the wisdom of the potential bid. So far, the message has been clear: we love ya lots Barack, but sit this one out.
The naysayers are with good reason. An Obama presidential run would defy logic and conventional political wisdom. He’s not even two years into his six-year term as senator. He’s only 45 years old. Even his biggest supporters must admit that he doesn’t have the experience in foreign affairs or economic policy to be the leader of the free world. Oh and one more thing: his all-but-declared competition for the Democratic nomination is his senate colleague, American icon, and wife of the most popular politician ever, Hillary Rodham Clinton. If polls are to be believed, likely Democratic voters favor Clinton for the nomination over Obama by a healthy 13 to 14 percent margin.
All that being the case, Sen. Obama should run for President of the United States in 2008, because this is his only chance to win.
Hope-heavy politics and intriguing personal stories are well and good, but the world is excited about Barack Obama for President for two reasons. First, he is black, but somehow racially ambiguous enough to widely appeal to a rapidly changing America. Second, at 45, he is extremely young as politicians go.
The first pillar of Obama’s wild popularity is his racial background. His mother was a white Kansan, and his father a Kenyan economist who came to the United States to study. On top of that, he was raised in Hawaii, of all places. Therefore, while Obama is brown in phenotype, he is not typically “black”; his uniquely American personal story, along with his look enable him to evade many of the racist stereotypes associated with African Americans. Should he run successfully, President Obama would mirror the changing American population: centrist, and increasingly brown but racially nebulous.
Second, Obama’s age is largely the reason that he should run. Political youth and vigor go hand-in-hand with the perception that he could bring fresh ideas to the country, while not yet having been jaded by the Washington machine.
But here’s the catch: federal politics runs in cycles, and this is the Democrats’ turn on top. Assuming that the Dems can ride the November wave through 2008, they will reclaim the White House. If Obama doesn’t run then, he surely won’t challenge the incumbent, his party-mate, in 2012. At the end of the Democratic incumbent’s second term in 2016, the winds of political change could again be upon us, giving way to another four or eight year GOP presidential reign. Worst-case scenario, the door would re-open for Obama in 2024, when he would be a 63-year-old Capitol Hill veteran. By then, the JFK-like spark that defines Obama’s current celebrity would be a distant memory. Chronologically, ’08 is his best shot.
Obama’s presidential ambitions still carry significant peril. The ubiquitous Hillary, and former senator and vice presidential candidate John Edwards present the stiffest of competition. Also, if history is a guide, Obama could face the same fate as L. Douglas Wilder, the African American former governor of Virginia who attempted to parlay his post-election popularity into the 1992 Democratic presidential nomination. Like Obama would be, Wilder was only two years into his gubernatorial tenure when he ran for president. Wilder was attacked as having placed his personal ambitions before his commitment to Virginia, and he was trounced thoroughly in the primaries.
Nevertheless, the hopeless political romantic in me wants Barack to give it a go. In 2004, Edwards was proven beatable, and he has been out of the public eye since. As for the Wilder dilemma, Obama was a national figure as soon as anyone outside of Illinois knew him, while Wilder tried to go national off his Virginia buzz. Right now, Sen. Clinton is the major obstacle. But she is not nearly as well liked as the gentleman from Illinois. Furthermore, assuming they duel in the primaries, both Clinton and Obama would benefit from bigotry; she from those who can’t see a black president, and he from a segment who wouldn’t vote for a woman as commander-in-chief. As for trailing Clinton in the polls, remember, Clinton the First once trailed Paul Tsongas. Yes, Paul Tsongas.
Should he become the first black President of the United States, Obama would ultimately be remembered as one of the most famous people who ever lived. By all accounts a super intelligent, contemplative guy, he surely understands the magnitude of the moment and his potential place in world history. America may not be ready for a black president, but Obama has somehow managed to transcend “black” to become the face of a populist, centrist political day. Barack Obama is lightning-in-a-bottle personified, and he can’t afford to pass on this generation-defining opportunity.

22 Tracks...more to come

Just a few songs that I think everybody should hear at least once. In no particular order:

1. "Run to the Sun", N.E.R.D.
2. "Holding Back the Years", Simply Red
3. "Ice Cream", Sarah McLaughlin
4. "Wheel", John Mayer
5. "T.R.O.Y.", Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth
6. "As", Stevie Wonder
7. "Hey Young World", Slick Rick
8. "Maybe", N.E.R.D.
9. "Silent Treatment", The Roots
10. "Strawberry Letter 23", The Brothers Johnson
11. "Redemption Song", Bob Marley
12. "Dumb Angel", Deep Cotton
13. "Rollercoaster", Everything but the Girl
14. "Umi Says" Mos Def
15. "Sinner Man", Nina Simone
16. "Sky's the Limit", The Notorious B.I.G.
17. "Human Nature", Michael Jackson
18. "A Song For You", Donny Hathaway
19. "Superstar", Luther Vandross
20. "I Can Only Be Me", Keith John
21. "13th Floor/Growing Old", OutKast
22. the song from which this blog takes its name. (ha!...a bit of trivia there)

The Dionysian Trap

Let's assume that there is inherent, rampant, and malicious racial injustice ingrained in every stage of the criminal justice system. Let's say that at every phase of his interaction with the criminal justice system, a young black man will be treated patently unfairly. Whether or not this is the case, let's assume, just for today, that this is a factual truth.

Assuming the above, isn't there a more important issue? Isn't the bigger issue why the young black man's belief system, values and resultant behaviors lead him to disproportionally frequent interactions with the criminal justice system in the first place?

One Day in Roxbury

Sometimes I imagine the day he met her.

It was probably on Massachusetts Ave., under a gray Boston afternoon sky. He probably saw her from across the street, because he lived on the west side of Mass Ave, across from the New England Conservatory where she went to school, on the east side of the street. He probably first saw her a couple of blocks north of Columbus, a few blocks south of Boylston.

He probably just got off the trolley, the orange line, after returning from Marsh Chapel to his flat. For him, home was temporarily the very edge of Roxbury, where he could feel like he belonged, if only for a few hours, as the evenings set in and through the night, until he would have to do it all again at BU the next day. Forget that some people called it the South End. To him, this was Roxbury, where his people were.

In Roxbury, he could see the people that he saw back home on Auburn Ave in Atlanta. Nevermind the fact that their accents were nothing like in Atlanta. Somehow, here in Roxbury, the Beantown accents weren't as harsh as they were over on Commonwealth where he spent his days, or the ones that he'd heard about down in Southie. (He'd never been to Southie, and he didn't mind if he never went there.) In Roxbury, he could get a hot plate of the food he grew up on. Or pick up the latest Billy Eckstein record. And perhaps most importantly, in Roxbury, he could get a haircut. Sometimes he didn't even need a haircut; he just went to the barber shop to be at ease with his people, wasting the hours away.

As he hopped off the trolley that particular day, he wondered if any of his friends from home would ever experience what it was like to sit in the front of public transportation. He wondered if it were better to sit in the back; at least that way they didn't have to endure the stares from folks who knew that he could sit up front in Boston, but most of his kind didn't even though they could. He always told himself that he didn't care about their stares, but he knew that he really did, because he never sat closer to the front than the third, maybe fourth row. Just trying to play it safe, so to speak.

Maybe it was a Monday. That way, when he saw her, he was confident enough to step to her because his razor lining was still somewhat fresh from the previous weekend's cut. And he was probably still riding the high of having gotten chosen once or twice at the gathering for which he had gotten that cut. Maybe it was the all-Boston black graduate student dance, down at the Rosemont Ballroom. He had been a hit that night. Maybe he really showed those up-north negroes a couple of things about jitting; just a few moves he picked up at the 'House. And as a reward for cutting a decent rug that night, he left with his pockets full of napkins and paper scraps, all bearing magic codes to contact more than a few soft-handed, silky-haired admirers of his footwork.

Usually he wouldn't have looked over his shoulder across the street. Usually he would have just carried on to the west side of Mass Ave, leather briefcase slung over his shoulder. But today was different. Today he was expecting a letter from home. Rumor was that his old friend and mentor Howard was coming to assume the deanship of Marsh Chapel, at his school. This was great, he thought, it was too bad that he would be graduated by the time Howard arrived in the fall. Well, maybe he could stay one more year, and find something else to study. No, he had already committed to moving on, to Crozer. And he couldn't delay his return home any longer. His people needed him there more than ever. He was tired of being a student. And, Boston was just too danged cold.

Anyhow, in hopes of getting a letter confirming Howard's new gig, he allowed his eyes to avert themselves from their routine path. Today, he canvassed Mass Ave looking for the postman, to see if he had already come or not. He looked left, looked right, looked south, looked nor...

Whoa! Who is that, he probably thought! She is incredible! He knew that he had to say something to her. Maybe he considered to himself how he would cross back over the street to get to where she was. He couldn't yell across Mass Ave to her. Not this time. She would never hear. And even if she did hear him, why would she stop whatever she was doing to pay him any mind? He would look like a crazy man, yelling across the street to her. Plus, she looked to classy for some stuff like that. No, not this time. Not her. He had to get on 'cross that street for her.

So maybe he made his way across. He probably tried to breathe naturally, which was hard because he was nervous and excited to see her, and he had just dodged Edzels and trolleys crossing the street to get to her.

Collecting his breath for a moment, he probably said, "Hi, have you seen the postman?" DANG!!! That's the best I could come up with!? SHOOT! I know I could have done better than that! That was so jive! She probably smiled, and said "No, as a matter of fact I have not. But if you wanted to introduce yourself, all you had to do was just that. You'd like to get thrown in jail, a Negro boy running in front of cabs like that!"

Wow, he must have thought, she sounds like me! And my sister, and my Mama! This is my lucky day...

I'm sure that she was gorgeous. She was probably coming from her voice class, preparing for the coming weekend's performance at the Conservatory. Some said that she was the best Negro singer that they had ever heard. She could sing classically like the white girls in her class, but she still sang like she had seen other things, other genres in her day. They loved her at the Conservatory, becuase she was an experiment of sorts. The deans wanted to see what would happen with the spirit filled voice of a southern negro girl mixed with a classical training. She had succeeded in the experiment beyond anythign that the head masters could have imagined.

But right then, on Mass Ave, he most likely didn't know all of that. All he knew is that he had to find something else to say to her; anything!

"Hi, I'm..."

"I already know who you are, Martin. I'm Coretta."