Swagger And The Original Gangster

I came across a young black boy on my way home the other night. There was nothing extraordinary about this particularly, but his walk enchanted me; there was a steady gait, there was a swish in the swagger and every now and then he would lightly trace the edge of his oversized baseball hat with a steady finger, he was maybe eight-years-old. I myself do not swagger, at least I don't believe I do. When every young black man I knew - both in Nigeria and when I moved here to the states - was placing an identity, often excessively 'masculine,' into their signature walk, I thought it was silly, and actually still do. One can say many a thing with his footsteps, but there are not many things that need to be said with them.

Watching that eight-year-old make his way down the street in front of me, got me to considering the fact that perhaps there was something unnatural in my, often absolute, rejection in mimicking the ways of established manhood; my story of course being the story of the ages; I do not want now, or any day soon, to become a mirror of my father. Does that boy want the opposite? Does he want to become what he knows to be his father - absent or present? Did I once want to become my father, and if so, when did the tide turn? Questions many, answers yet to be reached.

I suppose the entire reason I noticed the boy was because I was jealous, he seemed so sure in his steps. Here was this truth he had found, and he was showing it off to the world, ever so boldly. Here was this conviction deep in his heart, 'Man,' and he was here to showcase its true facade. Perhaps in the belly of youth arrogance, conviction and truth are all the same. Perhaps the boy had earned his swagger, but all that aside, another question popped into my mind, would I care how he walked if he was white? What is the measure of white masculinity? Perhaps that is not my question to research, actually I know it is not. My young cousin, about eight himself, recently told me he wanted to be a gangster, and upon a small reprimand he told me he wanted to be a gangster and a doctor; this way he could shoot people and help them - 'gangster heal thyself,' I suppose.

All this just to say, why is there such a hyper-masculinity attached to black maleness? Why is it just OK to dress your eight-year-old, forget that, your baby as if he were already, in his infancy, an OG as we say, Original Gangster? I grew up wearing mostly church-wear in public, shirt, tie, slacks, and when I wasn't wearing that I was wearing some ridiculous matched pair of homemade clothing with my brother thanks to our mother, no complaints (it's just that those pictures haunt you forever). So I guess my perspective is a little skewed, but here's my two cents: please do not allow your children to put on any clothing that deems them part of a larger conversation they do not even understand yet. The child's body should be a neutral zone, free of politics, agendas and certainly 'masculinity.'

So You Work At Club Monaco

My brother is a sweet soul, I'm often paternal to all my siblings but him especially because he is the last born. He's a character, takes less bullshit than any other person I know, often surprises me, his spunk, because we are often a calm clan, at least on the surface. He's home for the summer holidays and yesterday ventured out into the city to continue a job search he has been adamant about for months before the summer began, several offers he has received, but one often does not want to spend the entire summer herding other people's children around ridiculous stretches of man-made nature at Camp "insert-pseudo-native-american-name-here." Alternative? Well, retail of course.

Who knew it was such a serious affair? Who knew selling over-priced khakis and striped shirts was something to be snotty about? The forty year old queen, and I use this in the most derogatory sense, not to set the struggle back, but to emphasize that this bitch was, well, bitchy! The conversation unfolded something like this 'So what do you know about Club Monaco?,' a callous eye roll, taking my brother in as though he were America's regret, and finally a yawn...Did I miss something? What the hell is there to know about Club Monaco? You sell clothing! Or is it the fact that you cloth the gentrified masses that makes you so special?...please. And at this point I am officially the angry black man, but why not? Who in their right mind looks down on an 18-year-old coming to you for employment, would you be more comfortable if he was on the corner where you can ignore him? Is he more familiar to you in thug-gear? Can you more easily digest him in sexual mandigo fantasies? Why is it just alright to pour your fear and despise on him alone?

I was livid when my brother recounted this to me, he was indifferent, found it funny even. I was angry not because I give two flying f**** about Club Monaco, but because this country will do something sinister to you when you accumulate enough of these, miniature disasters; it takes my proud brother and makes him confused; it takes his self-esteem and places it underneath over-priced loafers, or maybe worse, it takes his zest for life and magicks it into apathy, and it turns my rage into constipation that slowly eats me dead. This country will dissolve you if you have the misfortune of being born black, and male. New York City is no exception, he who tells you different is a fool and should of course be pitied.