With all the New Year’s Eve revelry, I spaced on what should be an early contender for the Flame War Of ’07. In addition to questioning the racial sensibilities of The Big Lead’s readers (or commentators, at least), Sports On My Mind’s dwil composed an open love letter to Edge Of Sports’ Dave Zirin (above).
There are some of us out there, black people that is, who are seriously tired of white dudes like you who made and continue to make their way into the mainstream as spokespeople for black folks. I want to let you know you don™t, can™t, and won™t ever, ever speak for me – ever, feel me?
I pray that one of your punk-boy emissaries passes this along to you so you know for sure that Stephen A. Fetchit putting you on œQuite Stankly to provide viewers with the œblack perspective doesn™t mean shit. And no, I don™t give a shit that you write for Slam, either. To me, they just took a known name over hundreds of people with real-ness. All I can say is, oh well, choices like that™ll come back to haunt ya in the end.
You see, assholes like you know too many black folks are still just one step removed from being house niggers and love it way too much when a white person wants to œbe down – they™ll let you in their homes, their world, and then go tell all their friends how elevated their status is because a white person chose them to talk to – ask Bill Clinton if you don™t believe this is the way it works.
Now you break bread with slaves like Fetchit and Jason œHouseboy Whitlock. You let them tell you how all those other black people are the slaves, the ones who œruin it for the rest of us and, in turn, you appeal to their fragile egos by telling them in so many words that œthey™re black guys, not niggers like most of ˜them™.
What™s even sadder (and it™s not more sad, for all you grammar-challenged fucks) is that it™s 2006, almost 07, and black writers who want to say something real without being shit on by white people too scared to practice self-examination when it comes to their views of race and people of color and by Uncle Toms and Tomettes, are still relegated to places like œAOL Black Voices and The œBlack Sports Network. It™s maddening that in the 21st century what I am typing at this very moment still can™t truly be part and parcel of the œmainstream; gotta have that œBlack qualifier to make sure people know that what is critical of Western culture™s dominion œdoesn™t reflect the views and opinions of whatever website, newspaper, magazine, or TV network (to rap music listeners – why do you think œSoul on Ice by Ras Kass went out of print in 90 days and, to this day, you have to fight tooth and nail to get your hands on what is the greatest and most politically-charged rap album of all time?!)
The last words Malcolm X heard before he was gunned down by FBI-trained, Elijah Muhammad-sanctioned assassins are the same words I want to pass along to you, Zirin: œGet your hand out my pocket.