The Missing Persons in the Conversation

The article from the 37signals.com base camp, “Osmo Wiio: Communication usually fails, except by accident,” is an excellent meta-conversation starter. Since my teen years, I have always felt what Osmo Wiio articulates within the confines of western science:

And I particularly like his observation that anytime there are two people conversing, there are actually six people in the conversation:

Who you think you are

Who you think the other person is

Who you think the other person thinks you are

Who the other person thinks he/she is

Who the other person thinks you are

Who the other person thinks you think he/she is

The boldface I have added make heavy what can destroy the lives of Black men and even drive us to insanity. When a Black man takes egocentrism for granted and devotes massive amounts of resources to controlling or dominating items three and five, this is going Hollywood without Hollywood billions. This is an endeavor to be super-clean—a mission of dominance doomed to fail. One dramatic example of what can happen to a brother with this shit is in “‘The Terrible Mystery’ of Gayl Jones.”

Black men, boldface item three and boldface item five are so “special”—not because I am hopelessly self-centered (not that I can stop you from thinking that)—but because the psychological onslaught against Black men never ends. Most properly assimilated persons of all American skin colors who can tell a tale of teenaged woe—an adolescent story about finding identity and having it unrecognized, feeling the pain of being misunderstood foundationally as a person—usually finds some kind of an reconciliation/capitulation ending. Imperial society finds a stereotype that is almost comfortable for many, many people. But for Black men this discomfiture never ends. This is why narcotics are so important for too many Black men. This is why keeping up appearances (fronting) is excessively excessive for Black people in general and Black men in particular. In order to face these millions sober and without lies, you have to have an incredible amount of information and a practice of meditation. I’m not telling you that I have successfully obtained this ‘incredible’ status but I feel much better in 21^st century than from the assumptions I lived under in the 20^th…

So, when I am in the one-on-one conversation, my journeys have brought me to a place where my eye sees the six metaphysical people of our material two. For me, getting to know a person means I, even I, can form a functional, continually revisable theory about who is actually speaking to me. So when a person speaks to me—even a stranger—from the first millisecond my meta-senses attempt to surround them and examine how they are constructed. Thugs might call this a form of “street knowledge”—but I know enough about street to know that I do not run no streets (double negative added for emphasis). It is not enough for me to just respond to what a person is saying but to examine why the person said what they said—and when the person said what they said.

Some examples of this procedure date back to my times in college. One or two times there was the self-described “white kid” who listened to Bob Marley. This is the kid who suddenly starts using an unusual amount of profanity when he speaks to a guy like me. He asks me where I can find the ganja because by the way I looked and dressed, I “seriously” must know where the drugs are. This person does not have to be formally and exhaustively identified as a racist. I just examine what he said and why he said it and when he said it. He may think I do not enjoy his presence or his company (within seconds) because I wrongly assume he is racist and once we clear that little problem up we can be “buds”—after all we both like Bob Marley—but no: whatever the engine that drove those cussin words about dope out of his mouth is of a whack-ass design. I am very, very certain that I have this same effect on millions of other people. Sometimes I do not need to even speak—the look in my eye, the way I am walking at that moment, my aura, my vibe is striking. My decision to be myself is too frequently unacceptable to others.

These interactions take seconds—often split seconds. I have had years to figure out how weak or how strong my judgment of character can be. My adult commitment to me is to make a mufukkin decision—and face death or life by that decision. Now, this is truly a life-or-death issue when it comes to the six people between me and my theoretical Black woman. More than one sister has literally said to me, “Who do you think you are?” Osmo Wiio should be there to teach her that her one question is actually of six questions. Not knowing this is literally a missed opportunity to learn about one’s self.

My experience (which actually does have limits) informs me that that answering all six questions leads my Black woman to confront new questions like: Why do you seek a confrontation with an adult that you think is arrogant and unconcerned about you? Is it not very unlikely that a man who reached adulthood steeped in arrogance and ignorance will change? Can you site any examples from among your identifiable community where an adult Black man, confronted with evidence of his arrogance and ignorance, sincerely and almost permanently changed for the better? When yes, are you certain that you are using the same techniques to bring about this change? When no, then are you sure that what you are doing, this angry confrontation, is productive—or is it merely indulgent? When you agree that it is indulgent, then what are you indulging in? What is it within you that provokes you to anger—to bring this confrontation? Often and bitterly ironically, my woman, who previously felt that she was being ignored and overlooked by some arrogant character, suddenly does not want to answer the last question. That last question leads to the place that she does not want to see or be seen. She is willing to preoccupy herself with anything other than going there. An easy way out is to get back to me and my supposed “perfect little world” of knowing things “nobody” cares about… Her “good” man knows when to stop asking questions… I’m not her “good” man.

In case my communication fails so far—especially in the previous paragraph—, then just know that I think communication fails because of the divisions among the six people in the two-person conversation. These predispositions cannot be underestimated. Before we speak first words to each other, we should know about “the baggage” in our past dominating what we say. Every person (that includes me) speaks within a context. This is why the title of this journal is called “the rasx() context.”

It is important for me to understand that I come from a context of poverty. This means I have trouble seeing plenty and overflowing with generosity. This is because generosity in my little world is not met with generosity. My experience with people—other poor people (regardless of income in American dollars)—is that generosity is met with non-recognition or just plain exploitation. Again, egocentrism can be dangerous here. It is egocentrically easy to assume that people (namely my Black women) do not reveal their generosity to me because they choose not be generous. When my ego steps aside and the lives of these people are examined, it renders clear to me that many of these people have no choice. These people are not very generous to themselves.

The fourth, fifth and sixth person in our two-person conversation will eventually cause my Black woman to ask the question, “Why is he talking to me?” In order for her to answer that question she has to depend on personal historical data to provide her with answers. Sadly, for me, the arithmetic clearly shows that the number of units of time she has spent with me is (sadly) less than the amount of time she has spent with the masculinity personality that came before me. I know “we” all “hate” math, but no matter what my lovely woman says about our need to “free” ourselves from “baggage” we end up depending on said baggage, this past, to nurture imagination. So here is a list of Black masculine memories that are literally unimaginable to most people in general and my Black women in particular:

• The memory of the Black man that dedicated his life to continuing the multi-generational work of restoring traditional, wisdom-based African culture for the sake of all humanity. This dedication was not interrupted by internal egocentric feuds or the fear of not being “credited” for adding to the work. This dedication was not turned into a Babylonian business but was a simple, austere, quiet, retiring way of life. Few—so, so few Black women have that memory of that gentle father or that kind uncle alone in his rooms with his books and his papers.
• The memory of the Black man who would wear the same blue-collar work clothes with an undershirt that was washed so many times that the cotton fabric is eroded translucent like silk. His under clothes would be literally falling off of him but he would point with pride at his children in their new clothes—and new, thick underwear—and proclaim, “I put those clothes on them children!” Too, too many Black women—especially the daughters of extremely physically attractive mothers—have memories of quite the opposite: children walking around in rags in a shack while pops rolls a brand new GTO.
• The memory of the Black man with a serious look on his face because it was clear to all actually taking the time to investigate that he looked serious because the situation he faced was serious. The frowning, seemingly haughty expression on his face was for the highest universal ideals and not some selfish, special-interest-group, bitchy, petty emotional triviality. Sadly, my Black woman is made to remember Jesse-Jackson or Al-Sharpton styles instead of viscerally feeling the true history of Marcus Garvey. Too, too many Black women—especially the daughters of extremely physically attractive mothers—have memories of the corrupt Black man behind closed doors where all ideals fall into the reality of telling lies for the sake of sexual predation.
• The memory of the satisfied Black man who deliberately invested in a life-long relationship with his best, live-in friend, a Black woman. In spite of his handsome looks and fine physique this strange Black dude was not at all interested in the promise of the next extra sex relationship with a “new” person, but rather valued the depth and variety of the same relationship again and again with an interesting, intelligent person—this Black woman. I can hear millions of Black women all over the world just sarcastically laughing at this one. The hatred in their laugh is most terrifying to me. A real-life Black man truly living like this must be untrue to these smart, savvy ladies. Harry Potter flying around with a wand up his ass is more acceptable to these people.It took me way too much time here to explain what can happen between adults in just a few seconds. I can just walk in the general direction of the person that might be in my next conversation and tell by reading their body language what kind of Black men they have known in their life. With just a few words, it can quickly become clear what kind of assumptions the person in my conversation have about Black men.

Properly Assimilated Person: “Why are you so uptight?”

The Black man: “Loose get us killed by the cops.”

Properly Assimilated Person: “Why can’t you stop this ‘black’ stuff and be just a regular person?”

The Black man: “Blackness has its limits but being a regulated, normalized person has more limits. I’m extremely attracted to freedom. One can’t go back to listening to Kenny G after really hearing Miles Davis.”

Properly Assimilated Person: “What do you do for a living?”

Bamn! The reason why this person asked me this question is to determine whether my “black political bullshit” prevents me from functioning economically. When the person actually finds the answer to this question they often collapse into a state of cognitive dissonance. In order to recover, they have to make a choice: pretend that a person like me does not exist and continue with their lives or completely revise their worldview. My measurements inform me that this revision is often more painful and more impossible for properly assimilated people of color than so-called “white” people. (But this does not mean that I should ironically and insanely be a Black man that make preferences for “white” people—for more on this craziness, read “Amiri Baraka: Black Dada Nihilismus.”)

I have even noticed that some properly assimilated people of color, who think they know who I am, are just sitting back waiting for me fall apart. Their ultimate question for me is, “Have you been crushed by the great white society, yet?” My answer is, ‘Yes.’ I am crushed. My heart is broken. Here are some things you might want to read that came pouring out of my heart:

• “Basic Black: The Funky Sutra”
• “Stevie Wonder’s Key of Life”
• “Bryan Wilhite: we must learn to accept the implied without anger”What you are reading now is actually a future classic. More to come…

rasx()