Sections 1 and 2 of "White Supremacy on Its Deathbed"

Let's workshop the opening sections of a novella-length lyric essay I am working on. What might white supremacy do to ensure young people never forget that blacks serve foremost as primal sex objects?

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White Supremacy on Its Deathbed: A Lyrical Essay for My Son

Racism is not dead, but it is on life support—kept alive by politicians, race hustlers and people who get a sense of superiority by denouncing others as “racists.”—Thomas Sowell

1

We all know what white supremacy in its heyday would do out of devotion to the torturous ruin of black kind: in our minds at least as embers live images of scarred bodies dangling from castration trees like grotesque fruit or warlock ornaments, hard-R whites—trouser waist bands well above their belly buttons—cheesing ear-to-ear for the big-flash foldout camera as if posing next to the prize catch.

But to regrow the number and penetration of its tentacles to that of days halcyon in its eyes (days at least where it was easy to find on postcards and cigar boxes and calendars images of black infants with the phrase “Gator Bait” above them, days where it was easy to find images of smiley gators chasing spook-eyed black babies on tins of dainty-morsel licorice drops and, of course, on laundry products that “can remove the toughest discolorations”), what might white supremacy do from its deathbed today (where racism is considered chief among the discredited barbarisms of humankind and where the label “racist” hurts the soul—not to mention the chance for a career or a mate—more than pretty much any other)?

Focusing on American blacks for now (until it can work up enough strength perhaps to take on other game, game many university students in the West today would describe as “less-injured”), what depths might white supremacy plumb in its quest for black devastation in a time where blacks are nowhere blocked from any opportunity as a matter of systemic injustice (let alone of institutional malice); a time where pro-black affirmative action has been the policy for over fifty years in a country that has made virtually every form of discrimination illegal; a time where a missing black child marshals enough urgent compassion that government agencies and grass-roots collectives in every major city search by land, air, and water (yes, even if at the expense of back-burnering the many missing indigenous children); a time where national news anchors earn major social capital by mocking, live on air, statues of founding US presidents as “backward rapists happy to whip their slaves on stolen land”?

What might white supremacy do in a time where blacks (in many cases for almost a century) have been billionaires and prima ballerinas; lawyers and US Attorney Generals; chess grandmasters and doctors; America’s dad (Bill Cosby) and America’s mom (Oprah Winfrey); mayors and congressmen; US ambassadors and army generals; beloved national-news broadcasters and prime-time hosts; archbishops and CEOs; astronauts and US poet laureates; US Supreme Court justices and directors of science foundations; leads in the US opera and celebrated inventors; recipients of Pulitzers and National Book Awards and Noble Prizes and Medals of Honor and Presidential Medals of Freedom and Academy Awards and MacArthur Genius Grants; US Presidents and Vice Presidents (who most people in the US would regard meeting as a chief highlight of their lives); curators of a music-and-art culture that has become the dominant culture for all peoples across the globe—a time where blacks are even in the NHL)?

Beyond the spitting mouths of desolate seniors, powerless in the face of looming oblivion, abusing black nurses with racial epithets (delivered, typically, more to sting in tantrum than out of any sincere sense of the inherent inferiority of blacks); beyond teachers calling upon a white student before a black student (in most cases today, if not merely random, a function of something as simple as the called-upon being more eager or, in the case of a teacher trying to draw the shy into the conversation, being less eager); beyond the rare rallies of Klan members, whom all but a few thousand of us consider more of a joke than scientologists and flat earthers and “Lil” rappers combined (yes, even when they actually reject black inferiority and merely peddle white pride and racial separatism, as is true of a growing number staunch about how harming blacks is as morally problematic as harming whites); beyond the occasional “Karen” pushing a slow-moving black kid out of a crowded elevator with a “Come on, kid” (more likely as a matter of impatience bolstered by ageism rather than racism)—beyond such relatively risible squawks of “total war against black bodies,” what more might white supremacy do to soar once again now that both its wings have been shattered?

Beyond the sporadic store clerk, especially in areas of high black crime, being a bit more watchful through surveillance cameras and convex mirrors (but almost never out of a sense that something sinister plagues an entire race by birth); beyond the employers with negative reactions to stereotypical black names like La’Quantavia Johnson (something that many employers compensative for—if not over-compensate for—and seems more likely to reflect class-bias than racial bigotry); beyond the Chinese ladies telling the black man with double-taking shock on their faces how wonderfully he speaks Mandarin (a reflection of how rare it is for outsiders to master the language); beyond the noticeable number of potential donors more reluctant to give money to black-male canvassers (a difference largely explained by “urban look” as opposed to skin color, especially when it comes to people in nonurban areas clued into the reality of overrepresentation in violent crime by black males with an urban look); beyond a relative handful of officers and judges who, especially given weeks overworked in districts overrepresented in black crime, blur together black faces instead of looking at each face afresh (as, in fact, almost all these officers and judges, not thinking there is anything wrong with black people as an inborn fact, will sincerely admit they ought to)—beyond such comparatively pathetic expressions of antiblack racism, what more might white supremacy do to grow from the mere Ursula-polyp to which it has been reduced (prepared perhaps to make you’re-going-down-with-me kamikaze moves if only out of a sense that, likely to die off anyway, it has little left to lose)?

2

To ensure that each wave of young people never forget that blacks still (as in the days of chattel slavery) serve foremost as primal sex objects; to ensure that black worth stays centered around physical appearance and sexual availability; to ensure that our culture does not de-normalize the longstanding practice of sexual harassment of black bodies; to ensure that black children remain more likely to engage in risky sexual behavior; to ensure that black people’s capacity for loving each other remain limited mainly to fucking and being taken (as opposed to going on an intimate journey of consensual connection with a fellow agent rich in emotions and inner psychology)—what might white supremacy do from its deathbed?

It could just sit back and watch our world where we so often think first of singers when we think of black females, and yet where the hypersexual form of black-female singer (embodied in, say, Lil’ Kim and Nicki Minaj) so monopolizes over other forms (embodied in, say, Esperanza Spalding and Rhiannon Giddens) that we have to squint past all the Grammys flying at a sea of black twerking asses (oil-shined for the cameras) to see the endangered alternatives out there—squint to see that there really are, believe it or not, non-sexually-extreme (indeed, non-empty-plastic, non-bling-gaudy, non-superficial-decadent, non-self-indulgent, non-reality-TV, non-Mammon-worshipping, non-Trump) black-female musicians who actually suffer hours training in classical-music conservatories, apprenticing under masters.

It could just sit back and watch our world where the old white pastime of gawking at “freak exhibitions” of big-booty blacks has resurged to become our global pastime, having grown from relatively humble beginnings—most notably perhaps the European tour of Sarah Baartman (Hottentot Venus), who no doubt had to perform proto-versions of the twerk (perhaps even shined up with whale oil)—to today’s twerk-bot Cardi B, basted with her own drippings of aberrant sexuality, in the cherished screens of almost every human in almost every nation.

It could just sit back and watch our world where, against the constant background of catchy chants easy to imagine lionesses in need of a good conquering might sing if they had language (“Rich nigga eight figure that’s my type / Eight inch big ooh that’s my pipe / Bad bitch I’ma ride that dick all night”), we need hearing aids to tune into those lyrics where black woman actually refuse, despite all the incentives of shiny objects and fame (the things in popular depictions they cherish above all), to enliven the fantasy at the very heart of our national culture (a fantasy, in a twisted turn of events, now celebrated by those meant to be dehumanized by it): that black females—close as they apparently cannot help but remain to the savageries of African jungles—hanker not simply for sex, but (as even just the radio hits reflect) to be choke-handled, spit upon, and have all their holes “beaten up and skeeted up” to prolapse extremes with such no-means-yes barbarism—especially by colossal cocks with Trump money, of course (these “whores in the house” do have standards!)—that even police, despite how trigger-happy the media says they cannot help but be around blacks, might have to get called.

It could just sit back and watch our world where, reflecting the positive feedback loop between black songs celebrating huge dick and everyday black woman’s desire for huge dick, more and more black woman approached in the street with a microphone say that they would never accept a man with a small dick (no matter whatever else he had to offer)—such viral-because-sensational interviews planting countless seeds of suspicion not only in men told by their black girlfriends how ridiculous such women are, but also in those black girlfriends themselves.

It could just sit back and watch our world where, against the constant background of catchy chants looping in the morning streets as children raise middle fingers to their doddering crossing guards (“All she wanna do is pop a Perc' and get her pussy beat (ba-ba-ba) / Take this dick, bitch, stop pushin' me / Face in the pillow, bitch, don't look at me”), we need hearing aids to tune into those lyrics where black men actually refuse to enliven a fantasy at the very heart of our national culture (a fantasy, in a ghoulish switch-up sometimes even frightening to its creators, now celebrated in excess by those meant to be degraded by it): that black men—close as they apparently cannot help but remain to the savageries of African jungles—hanker not simply for sex, but (as even just the radio hits reflect) to answer the beating-skeeting needs of black women, all while holding a weapon (once perhaps a stone or a staff but now in the new world a Glock) in case a lower-lip-biting threat of a head strike is needed to keep the bodies in line—the ultimate taboo prize, of course, being white female bodies since, unlike with black female bodies (whose sexually-voracious nature warrants bush treatment as disposable playthings), white female bodies have been regarded for so long as warranting dignity-preserving protection.

It could just sit back and watch our world where—although resulting in a great deal of white male (and even black male) demoralization for not being “black in the bedroom”—black men, as symbolized by that old bestializing stereotype of having monster penises, are renowned for what has long been used to mark them as subhuman threats to civil order, but now (by some perverse aikido) has society at large—yes, even Texan rednecks with dixie-flagged trucks and cowboy hats (surely not covering steer horns)—swooning like Elvis fans unable to resist the musk of exoticism: their sexual deviancy; their hypermasculine brutality and supernatural stamina in the bedroom, which allows them to beat up Thotiana’s holes “like Emmett Till” (until “she throw up” and the “pussy looks like Pacquiao” and the asshole’s creamed like “a murder scene”); their power and desire, in effect, to display the nastiest domination over bodies—whether a Rick-Ross champagne drugging to get those bodies back home to enjoy (without those bodies ever knowing), or a Blueface hair yanking to thwart attempts to run (“Ain’t no runnin’”), or a Kodak-Black mouth dicking to replace any “No” or cry of pain with what pop culture would have us think is for a black man the auditory equivalent of his watermelon (“Eghck eghck egchk”).

It could just sit back and watch our world where, as seen especially in the fetishistic porn and the fetishistic music that sells best, the stereotype of black hypersexuality is the foundation for such a mega industry that some black performers, perhaps to sleep better at night or to lessen the fragmentation between their reals selves and their performing selves, over time even hypnotize themselves (fortune, the mesmerist spiral; fame, the mesmerist pendulum) into feeling that they really are the sex-fiends they play on TV, that the hypersexuality stereotype their performances serve to reify really does align with their true ideals and standards and attitudes and desires and behaviors concerning sex—whether

Doja-Cat unquenchable (“Spank me, slap me, choke me, bite me. . . . Give a fuck 'bout what your wifey's sayin'. . . . I just want to fuck all night”);

or Sexxy-Red callous (“My son need a new pappy / Too many bitches, where the niggas at? / I'm tryna get my coochie stretched / I'm tryna get my coochie stretched / I can't say his name 'cause he be cheatin' (I love you, baby) / Yeah, and I'm the reason”);

or Flo-Milli-heartless (“Yo' main dude wanna feel on my body / And if I take him, bitch, I won't say I'm sorry. . . . A bad bitch with no morals, I'm sinning);

or Chief-Keef-ultimatuming (“Ain't gon' let me fuck, and I feel you / But you gon' suck my dick 'fore I kill you”);

or Foxy-Brown-reckless (“I’m sexin' raw dog without protection, disease infested");

or Mulatto-nasty (“Double-hand hand twist the pipe but I ain't even plumbing / He like 'em nasty-nasty, bitch, I'm Mrs. Put That Thumb In”);

or Bell-Biv-DeVoe-young-lust (“Backstage, underage, adolescent. How ya doin’? Fine, she replied. / I sighed. I like to do the wild thing. / Action took place. Kinda wet. Don’t forget”);

or Biggie-younger-lust (“Stab you 'til you're gushy, so please don't push me / I'm using rubbers so they won't trace the semen / The black demon got the little hookers screaming / Because you know I love it young, fresh and green / with no hair in between, know what I mean?”);

or Biggie-particularly-eight-year-old-lust (“You can 76 the 69 try 68 / Make Raven-Symoné call date rape”);

or Big-Daddy-Kane-even-more-inclusive-lust (“You gotta have a brain in order to be Ms. Kane / But in the case of not becomin my lady / I’ll take ’em eight to eighty, dumb, crippled and crazy”);

or Tyga-age-is-just-a-number-justifying (“They say she young, I should've waited /She a big girl, dog when she stimulated");

or Lil-Uzi-dehumanizing (“Better get your bitch, nigga, I'll rip her / Had her up on my bed then I flipped her”);

or Finesse2tymes-racially-degrading (“My bitch yellow, drank yellow”);

or Vado-gang-rapey (“Never fucked? Nut you ate that / My niggas fucked and we raped that”);

or Megan-nymphomaniacal (“Thinkin' he's a player, he's a member on the team / He put in all that work, he wanna be the MVP / I told him ain't no taming me, I love my niggas equally”);

or Tyler-the-Creator-taboo (“You call this shit ‘kids,’ well I call these kids ‘cum’ / and you call this shit ‘rape’ but I think that rape’s fun”);

or Lil-Baby-Pandarian (“Treat these hoes like a tire, I keep a spare”);

or Cam’ron-incestual (“I ran into my aunt / with the fat ass and the thin chest”);

or Minaj-freaky (“How about I cum all on your dick and then I lick it off?”);

or Trina-raunchy (“Licky licky licky licky licky for an hour / I’ma make it rain for you, golden shower”);

or Big-L-loveless (“Fuck love, all I got for hoes is hard dick and bubble gum”);

or Mulatto-gooey (“Double-hand twist have him sittin' on a cloud / Hit it from the back, makin' macaroni sounds”);

or Megan-extorting (“You better get on your knees and eat this pussy right / before I have another nigga do it for me”);

or Cam’ron’s-child-abusive: “I’ll rape your child / They won’t make the trial”;

or Doja-Cat ruthless (“You know my nigga be buggin' me / I just be wonderin' if you can fuck on me better”);

or Tyler-the-Creator-forced-threesoming “Rape a pregnant bitch and tell my friends I had a threesome”;

or Minaj-extreme (“YG and The Game with the hammer yelling, “Gang, gang" / This isn't what I meant when I said a gang bang”);

or NWA-underage-gang-rapey (“the dumb bitch licks out the asshole / and she'll let you videotape her / And if you got a gang of niggas, the bitch would let you rape her / She likes suckin' on dicks, and lickin' up nut / And she even take the broomstick up the butt. . . . / And my turn was like next / I couldn't see her face, all I saw was her pussy and her chest. . . . / And she's only 14 and a ho' / But the bitch sucks dick like a specialized pro”);

or SWV-conniving (“What your girl don't know won't hurt her / Anything to make this love go further. . . . So what's my chance / I'm willing to do anything to get / in your pants / You don't have to worry, I won't / say a thing / And if she finds out, I don't / know nothing”);

or Xscape cruel (“I like being in the same room as you and your girlfriend / The fact that she don't know / that really turns me on”);

or Tinashe-home-wrecking (“GPS your nigga if you looking for me”);

or TLC-infidelitous (“If he knew the things I did, he couldn't handle it / And I choose to keep him protected / So I creep, yeah, just keep it on the down low”);

or Biggie-extreme (“Don’t they know my nigga Gutter fuckin’ kidnap kids? / Fuck ’em in the ass, throw ’em over the bridge”);

or DMX-ferocious (“And if you got a daughter older than 15, I’ma rape her / Take her on the livin' room floor, right there in front of you. . . . Now watch me fuck just a little while longer, please, will you?”);

or Travis-Scott-conquestory (“Got your broad in the garage eatin' semen”); or Cardi-B-belittling (“Fuckin' your nigga, I got him on lock”);

or Mustard-emasculating (“Took your bitch out the game, I had to sub her / swap, swap, here we go”);

or Megan-superficial (“If your ass a broke nigga, hell nah, I can't meet ya / If your ass a rich nigga, I'ma fuck ya 'til you ain't one”);

or Megan-harlotry (“My pussy is the most expensive meal”);

or Megan-transactional (“Oh, you like big butts, well I like big bucks”);

or DMX-depraved (“I got blood on my hands and there’s no remorse / I got blood on my dick cause I fucked a corpse”);

or Kash-Doll-remarkable (“My neck game match my wrist game”);

or City-Girls-taunting (“Your baby daddy fuckin' me and suckin' me / He don't answer you, bitch, that's because of me”);

or Akinyele feticidal (“That belly blows up, it's gonna be trouble / I’ma have to play like a pin and come pop that bubble / Find Chucky if you want child's play / I'll give your ass a hanging and drop you off in an alleyway / This is a diary of a black man / By making no alimony payments due to no wedding bands / So ax that talk about marriage / Miss, you must of misunderstood, I want you to have a miscarriage / I'm fed up, and sorry that I've done it / I'm ready to set her up and have my little man kick her in the stomach / or punch my fist through that naval / cause I'll be damned if this be the hand that rocks the cradle / or push her down a flight of steps / I don't care or give a heck”);

or so the list goes on (and to much darker places when we dip below billboard-chart artists).

It could just sit back and watch our world where, regardless of the true feelings of these top black role models performing the jungle-sexuality we all demand (demand like Veruca Salt), the prime targets of these popular depictions (namely, impressionable youth whose lifelong thought and behavior patterns and understanding of social norms are still baking in the oven) not only will walk around with increased arousal in head and hormone (perfect for more underage black mothers of poverty), but also will learn how black people are prone to feel and thing and act—this way,

(1) yet another generation of people, black and white, will find it difficult to picture black bodies without also picturing extreme sexual organs in extreme sexual situations of dehumanization;

(2) yet another generation of people, as if we were back in antebellum days where sexual allure and guesses at potential fertility factored into auction-block sales, will deny sexual innocence to black girls, will continue to link their bodies to lust (such that, to give the clearest proof of the point, a depiction of the Virgin Mary as black would read at least subconsciously to blacks and whites alike as blasphemous, the mere darkening rendering the purest woman a freak-a-leek jezebel);

(3) yet another generation of black boys and black girls will believe that their primary value is in their sexual organs and that their desirability lies foremost in being voracious in bed;

(4) yet another generation of white people will feel (and with increasing odds of being proven right) that dating a black person will be like an “adventure in the wild” (potentially a Percocet-filled ghetto-gagging anal-gapping adventure) with someone who must have a lot of experience (especially if they are really dark and have a lot of curves);

(5) a new generation of everyday black people, failing to live up to the suffocating ideals of being magically irresistible or being big-dicked dominators or being ever-dripping and so every-ready to pole ride or so on, will find themselves mentally terrorized into confusion and into self-loathing feelings of inauthenticity and excommunication.

It could just sit back and watch our world where—even though these performers are for the most part not really unquenchable beasts ready to reduce everyone they encounter to sex objects, but rather are largely just kids pushing boundaries in the safe space of art; even though, in effect, these performers play several hygienic roles for humanity (especially (1) keeping in check the important but potentially-stifling conservative yin energy of humanity concerned with orderly maintenance of the very nests necessary for yang adventure, and (2) exposing the shadow elements of all humans, which helps us be more integrated and less likely than those who deny their shadow elements to become their slaves)—yet another cohort of young people, swamped by the big-money-backed predominance of hypersexual black performers, will be primed to see black bodies as what black people themselves (emulating at least to some degree their chief role models) will be daily nudged to see themselves as: as fuck spaces rather than as rational citizens with assets beyond ass.

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This piece is unpublished. I posted another portion of it, which concerns white guilt. here.

Photo: pitchfork.com/news/shenseea-enlists-megan-thee-stallion-for-new-song-lick-listen/