OSA Pt. 2: EITHER STAND TALL OR SITCHA ASS DOWN. Says Uni Q. Mical , Monday, July 21, 2008 at 5:40 PM, in

What catches me off guard, and boils my blood essentially, is the exploitation of our ugly, racist history (AND PRESENT) for your sick, twisted benefit. And, being it’s the south, to poke and evoke lynching and God in the same sentence…WORKS!!!! Every. Time. For many people.

Then have the AUDACITY to call us racist, after, of course first being accused of being racist…you don’t have to call me a nigger to be a racist (though I know it’s on the tip of your tongue). I’ve honestly been trying to wrap my bigass head around this overtly white, patriarchial, Jesus-freak camp coming to a predominantly African-American city and lacing their pamphlets with pictures of bright brown eyes and ponytails staring back, with the title “Where have all the black children gone?”

I don’t know, but I know where they’ll be.

The girls, give ‘em 16 years, of living in the same deficient, uprooted housing, eating with the aid of food stamps and relatives and “boyfriends”; of suffering in a classroom that doesn’t have a trace of their histories in them as victors, only as survivors, who never saw the true meaning of education other than a recess from reckless and hectic home life; whose textbooks don’t even touch the crack era, printed in 1981; whose health class (if applicable) doesn’t even highlight the current crack era, or safe sex, or positive displays of healthy sexuality, so she searches and searches for love, with every hymen re-torn and every demand to them to wear a condom, thinking she’s unworthy to challenge him when he says oh-so-smoothly “no”…for every week the stomach grows, every week the anxiety shows. And when she runs to the clinic, draped in sunglasses, white tees and grey sweatpants, they believe that four men and women invading and swarming on her circle will convince her to rethink her decision. And, what they see as reframing her worldview. But in reality, that’s one less burden she has to endure.

The guys, simply, no daddy, searching for him on the street corners, peering through the cracks in the cement while playing cee-lo, behind the bulletproof glass at liquor stores, through the hennessy plastered in the windows, and the lime green Newport ads on the walls…through the nets on the basketball courts, none of which are ever there. So he finds belonging in his boys, when trading pokemon and yu-gi-oh becomes fresh teenage pussy…though he must never show his vulnerability. His sensitivity. That he just might be falling for her. Cuz then, he’s a faggot. Not a pimp. So girls are tossed like Luv(s). Meanwhile, she’s still asking if the Jordans means he really loves her.

So that’s where they’ve gone. And where’s OSA when you need ‘em?

Manhandling the prisoners, behind every standardized test, tallying up the number of failing fourth graders to calculate the number of jail beds they’ll need in, say, 10 years.
Make your mark heavy and dark, be confident in your failure! Come on, we know u wanna do it! GO OUT WITH A BANG!

They’re shooting at u from inside your car, JESUS, I had no idea buckling my seat belt was a cause for instantaneous death penalty.
They’re punching passers-by in the face for recording harassment of a black teen on the cell phone, and keepin it movin onto toying with some other uneducated negro who fumbles through the streets alone.

They’re turning you away from privatized hospitals, only reserved for the true, hard-working, God-fearing citizens of America who can afford insurance premiums. And who even know what the fuck an insurance premium is.

Medicaid may as well just cover baby bottle nipples. Cuz we couldn’t even get a new pair of glasses with it.

They’re spraying down your government-subsidized lawns with west nile pesticide at 4 am, as if waking up at 9 and inhaling its remains is any healthier.
They’re infiltrating your supermarkets with an aisle dedicated to Pork n’ Beans, next to the Kool-Aid smile aisle, the back swimming in bologna and hog head cheese, racks of bloody, fresh-off-the-truck, frozen-in-their-guts chicken wings, and all the mercury you could wish and pray for in your catfish and lake trout.
Round these parts, the word organic is a JOKE. Y’all hoggin all the whole foods and trader joes to yourself.
(Throw some flour on that bitch.)

They’re putting petrolatum and mineral oil in ALL your babies’ head products, knowing you won't check the ingredients…if it say “super gro”, I want it. Nevermind that the gunk stays there until you wash it. And the whole “gro” part of that title? Impossible when the follicles can't BREATHE from being slapped down with luster’s FABULOUS pink oil moisturizer.

Blue Magic has lost its tricks.

I could go on and on and ON about who they are. What’s sad is they don’t even recognize who they are, all up in OUR kool-aid, don’t even care about the poverty that won't allow us to buy kombucha. And the mental poverty that conditions us to believe we’re not worth anything more than red sugar in a packet.

But I know who they are, because I’ve been victimized, whether directly or indirectly, by the institutionalized racism that attacks us. And while they’re busy debating whether or not their organization is racist, or whether they individually are racist, I can't help but see the disturbing similarities between bombing clinics, or standing on corners with dead fetuses to protect these innocent babies from the wrath of clinics…to the rhetoric of protecting their innocent white women from the wrath of savage negroes that justified EVERY lynching ever (un)recorded.

Maybe it’s me. But my blackness/womanness/queerness/poorness won’t allow me to lie to you. I’mma air it out before they write off me, my body, and my rights, like they’ve been trying to do to us countless times before my spirit even descended. They gon’ try to strike us, whether we hide behind silence or not. So whom shall I fear?