A happy day for middle aged black men
Here he goes again;
It was a homecoming of sorts for me today.
I went to the dinner for Bishop Desmond Tutu, given by the interfaith center and held at the Manhattan ballroom on 34th Street. The Manhattan ballroom has seen its' better days, but it is still a beautiful old place with lots of ornamentation and glitter, ghetto heaven.
There is something funny about people, who pretend to belong somewhere, and people who just belong.
I am long past the days where I feel as though I don't belong.
Honey, I earned this ticket and paid my dues.
I brought my oldest brother Ronnie.
Together, (we were a short and stubby with a tall and stocky), set of middle aged black twins.
Limping along, complaining about our feet and legs, hips, and every other used to work body part. The place was really laid out beautifully with a harp playing in the background.
There was drinks and finger stuff. There were tons of waiters bringing forth the bounty.
Ronnie is my older brother and I followed his lead.
He found the door where the waiters were bringing the food out, and that became our spot.
Dean Morton rushed over and kissed me profusely and gave my brother a big hug. Ronnie remarked, "that man really loves you Kevin, I can see it in your eyes." Ronnie further remarked that there were a few good men in the world, and that Dean was one of them.
The really well to do, inadvertently show how they care about you, when they leave their well healed friends in mid sentence to greet you and make you feel welcome.
Dean always does that.
He turned from a couple, who I later found out were also being honored. They turned out to be Nina and Daniel Libeskind, the designers of the new building to replace the World Trade Center.
Daniel was an offbeat, brilliant man, who was a quick wit with a biting sense of humor.
He is one of the "those" people, who when they look at you, they "really" look at you. As it turns out, he is a New Yorker; although the press has him as being German, he was actually raised in America.
He has three children, all under twenty-five, and two of them all ready have their PHD's, and I could see why.
He reminded me a lot of Randall, so I was quite at home with him. Daniel asked what I did, and Dean told him that I was an artist. I gave him the name of my gallery and one of their cards. I don't know if he will go, but it doesn't hurt to plug.
Where was I?
OK,
so Ronnie and I spoke to the usual suspects:
Lorenzo Pace, the designer of the "Slave Monument" in Downtown Manhattan, is an old friend, and several dancers from the Cathedral
Anyway, I was supposed to sit up front next to Tutu's table directly behind Dean, but Peggy said that there was a shortage of tables so they had to move me.
It was cool.
I probably would not have been able to eat drooling over Tutu all night anyway.
OK, so get this.
It was a day that every liberal in America would die for.
A day that every old Negro in America could appreciate.
There was a perfect fusion of old time religion with a touch of new age unreality and African purity.
The Catholic Bishops wrote a paper this year on the New Age Movement. They spoke of how Americans have removed the hard parts and sacrifice of being religious.
That was not the case that night.
There was many Muslims fresh back from The Middle East looking quite haunted.
There was a Rabbi, who had just returned from Israel, where he was setting up peace meetings.
There were Catholic priests, who had spent years in Africa, and no, they weren't just converting the Savages, but caring for them and feeding them. The conversations were all around.
Although, it seemed at a glance, it appeared to be a live sex show. In fact, it is many of the religious leadership of the world, who were putting their money where their mouths are and making a difference
. I respect that and that's why I go to these things.
I said last time that I could be a Jew, a Muslim, a Buddhist, or a Santeria Priest because they are all the same to me.
I am just partial to fried chicken, macaroni with cheese, and Aretha Franklin.
I am comfortable where I am now.
I can light a candle, do a chant, and then sing a spiritual at the end.
It's all the same to me.
So, where was I?
Harry Belafonte was there, and I spoke to him briefly before leaving and while talking to Dean.
He could have left my hero Colin Powell alone.
I could not get that out of my mind. What he said was partially true. But Black folks have a history of, as my mother used to say, pulling the black above them off the latter; until neither one can get up.
So, some place inside of me hears every statement as having two meanings and a hidden agenda.
And now,
I am off the beaten track.
Ossie Davis simply scares me.
It is too much like sitting at the feet of an angel.
It's like looking into the face of Black America as whole, alive, and powerful.
He is grandfather and father, teacher and saint, and warrior.
It's too much.
I am too mushy to deal with him.
I met him at the last dinner for Bill Clinton and got all teary eyed.
So this time, I had enough sense to keep my menopausal silliness at a distance.
I didn't want to scare him.
He probably thinks I am a nut.
All though Tutu says that Mandela makes most men's legs turn to jelly and that most people just break down, cry or faint in his presence.
I will talk about Bishop Tutu later.
We get to our table, and there are two Indian gentlemen, Jane's, from the United Nations.
There was a Rabbi, and I love Rabbis because they're so accessible.
Did I tell you this already?
There was a Wasp lawyer, who was funny, kind, and rich with his girlfriend, who as it turns out, lives near Houston Street.
I gave her a card to the gallery too.
She was not only a Quaker, but also an Astrologist for movie stars and such. She was a die hard New Yorker but earthy and nice.
There was another minister at the table, who said he had a church on 86th Street.
He was an asshole, and the whole table whispered nasty things about him the entire time.
All the money in New York was there at 50,000 dollars a table.
There were Rockefellers, Rubinsteins, Salengers, and so on.
They are all pretty nice.
It's amazing how nice the truly rich can be.
You are simply not a threat to them, so they have great manners and treat you fairly.
Hell, it isn't business with you, so they can afford to play nice.
So, Ronnie and I are munching away.
It was going fine until he told me what I was eating.
Sushi!
I don't eat anything raw if I can help, but I did.
I almost lost it when Ronnie told me I had been eating tons of steak tarter. Isn't that raw meat?
I am convinced that by morning,
I will have mad cow disease.
There was red stuff with Caviar on top.
I love eating caviar for figure,
when I found out it was wrapped in raw tuna,
I almost lost it.
Raw fish!
God,
I only eat fish if it's been irradiated and put into a box with the kosher seal of Mrs. Paul's.
Anyway, the show begins with Ossie Davis speaking and bringing me directly to tears.
These commies in this place are all about peace.
Anti war message, but it is a center for world peace.
I wore a suit and tie with my son's buffalo soldiers emblem attached to it
. I am sort of anti war, but pro soldiers.
Besides, I am totally arbitrary and love a good fight.
And come on, we know it's about the oil.
Come on!
OK!
Harry Belafonte got up and gave a glorious speech on anti war, anti poverty, etc.
Harry still makes me feel torn.
I know he's done amazing things, but something about him just never quite sits correctly, so go figure.
OK, then bring on the food.
It's a fancy chicken breast with a tasty green sauce, braised fresh carrots, and some fancy potato thing.
Desert was a cake topped with fresh raspberries, and a wondrous piece of chocolate.
I was pissed that those greedy bastards at my table all cleaned their plates. Last year, I sat at a table with three elderly ladies, who couldn't eat meat.
So they put it all on my plate and went home well fed.
This year, there were too many ethnic people at the table, and ethnic folks always eat all their food, especially if it's free.
Damn them!
Bishop Tutu,
I had figured out who he was shortly into his speech.
Bishop Tutu is Yoda from Star Wars.
That is exactly who he is, and I mean that in a very respectful way.
It reminded me of a time when Joseph Campbell once lectured on Star Wars and its religious significance.
So, Maybe that is what directed me.
The Rabbi next to me kept laughing and with tears in his eyes looked at me and said, "Tutu is so Jewish."
Once upon a time,
I wouldn't have understood what that meant.
Now, I know the similarities between Blacks and Jews is in our self-effacing sometimes-harsh sense of humor and outlook.
The ability to make a joke with a message out of something horrible.
I think it's just honesty or, ability,
God gives persecuted folks to transcend their circumstances.
Tutu spoke of coming to America and asking for help with Freedom over the years.
The audience clapped politely.
He said, "I now wave a magic wand and make you all African.
Clap like you mean it,
clap like you care."
The audience went wild and loosened up.
He was as far away from being pompous as anyone I have ever heard.
I saw his power in his religion.
In his small stature and message overlaid with good humor.
He is very African in his outlook, gestures, and warmth.
He started out by saying that God was not a Christian.
The audience laughed politely.
He then told a story of God speaking to a Christian, and saying that I was here before Christianity and I am God, and I am everyone's God.
You could see this man,
who only a fool could believe to be weak,
and understand that his outward gentleness masked so much more.
His power lies in laughter and lifting up spirits and in being simply stubborn. He is my hero.
That is for sure.
He is Yoda and a secret master of the universe.
He is a perfect counterbalance to Mandela.
He is in disguise.
By the time he is done with one of his stories, a clock ticks and while you are laughing, you just figure out what he had just said and its powerful message.
But, by then it is too late, you already heard it.
It is palatable.
Then came the obligatory African dancers and drummers, who were very good by the way.
There were more good speeches.
There was more Japanese,
Buddhist praying,
a Rabbi's cantering,
and a Santeria priest cutting off a chicken's head.
Just joking!
Then the heartburn from the Steak Tarter began,
and my feet were sore.
There are things that comfort an old Black.
I am convinced that bad feet were bred in black folks to keep us from leaving the plantation.
It worked. I am not running anywhere.
It was a good day to be an old Negro.
It's a good day to die.
So Ronnie and I got on the train and returned to Jersey
. I will finish up this letter.
Then go wash some dishes and turn on CNN and return to the real world. It's amazing how weird my world is.
Ronnie said I should write a book titled, "The most well connected, poor, black, insane, ex-cop lunatic artist in America".
I just poured a cup of coffee; mixed it with ginger ale soda and ice.
It's my favorite drink.
I got some ham and cheddar cheese on a Portuguese roll with some Mayo and Jalapano peppers as a topping with baroque chips and Tums.
It is time for some good food and a movie.
Dinner and a movie Kevin style.
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