Wanna Be Me Part II
The root of racism is jealousy.
An insecure, pale little man who was rejected by his tribe – licked his wounds in the jungle of Europe, and created a pathological world in which “race” became paramount, a world where his pale skin and kind would be considered “superior.” Never before had societies been ordered on the basis of skin color.
Dr. Frances Cress Welsing in “The Isis Papers” outlines her theory about white self loathing being the psychological root of racism. As a psychiatrist, she sought to understand why a people would organize a society on the basis of race. Noting that in her psychiatric practice, hearing a person repeat the mantra, “I’m superior’ over and over again would be an indicator of, not high but, low self esteem, Welsing believed that racism needed a closer examination.
She also wondered what would cause white men to, on a regular basis, castrate black men. As she tossed it about in her “brain computer,” she began to think about what is contained in the testicles: the genetic material that can eliminate white from the spectrum. Fear of genetic annihilation. Fear of genetic inferiority.
The theory is presented in a series of essays. Whatever you may think of some of the more outlandish theories presented, Welsing must be read. The Isis Papers.
Another book for people taking the road less traveled in regards to race is Neely Fuller’s The united-independent compensatory code/system/concept: A textbook/workbook for thought, speech, and/or action, for victims of *racism (white supremacy). One paraphrased quote from the book to me, MUST be read and digested:
“Some white people do not hate black people because they are black; they hate black people because they are not black.”
Wanna be me. I hear certain rappers speak of this phenomenon. Wiggers, pants down tha crack o’ they ass, holdin’ their Johnson. How many tanning booths can one town support? Who’s the first one with his shirt off when the sun peeks out from behind the clouds? Who went into the jazz clubs and dissected the bebop musicians and grafted “the beat” movement from angry, back to the audience negroes, talking that hip slang they “borrowed?” Who keeps pilfering our handshakes, trying to out cool-cool imitating brothas they take to school on the sly. Culture vultures, predatory benders of other people’s toil – sweat lodge me, baby. Needin’ a dose of the peasant style. Ya don’t really wanna be when I get beat down, Rodney KINGED. Wanna play me for the fool, the drink with the twist, imitate me right out of my skin, into yours and I’m not supposed to recognize that you are you playing me, a caricature of images you jealously spy and hate, except when you see them in your mirrored plate. Magical niggas, sidekicks and modern mammies, background to your foreground, black cream for yo’ white coffee. Just a lil’ dab’ll do ya!