The art of Kevin Blythe Sampson

THE ART OF
KEVIN BLYTHE SAMPSON

4/30/11

Benetton Cancels Venice Plans - artnet Magazine

Benetton Cancels Venice Plans - artnet Magazine

BENETTON CANCELS VENICE PLANS

Apr. 28, 2011

Share |

A noteworthy plan to take artworks by eight African-American artists to the 54th Venice Biennale, June 4-Nov. 27, 2011, has been suddenly canceled at the last minute by its corporate sponsor, Benetton. Originally undertaken in collaboration with the American Folk Art Museum, the exhibition was called off because the planned site, the unoccupied and historic Fondaco dei Tedeschi adjacent to the Rialto Bridge, could not be renovated in time, according to the clothing company.

Cynics might be forgiven for suspecting a different reason: The celebration of graffiti in Los Angeles, via "Art of the Streets" at LA MOCA, prompted a conservative cultural backlash as well as a reported eruption of tagging in the museum neighborhood, and the idea of encouraging graffiti in Venice with a prestigious art show must have struck some city fathers as less than a great idea.

Under the Benetton scheme for Venice, curators Martha Henry and Carlo McCormick selected four graffiti artists (Blade, DAZE, QUIK and Sharp) and four Outsider Artists (Lonnie Holley, Mr. Imagination, Tin Man [pictured] and Kevin Sampson) to show at the biennale -- plans that are now cancelled. "It seems the Folk Art Museum and Benetton spent all their time fighting with one another rather than getting together to make this happen," said one insider. Will Benetton stiff the eight black artists on their promised payday? Stay tuned.



contact Send Email

4/28/11

Donald Trump's racial discrimination problem - Donald Trump - Salon.com

Donald Trump's racial discrimination problem - Donald Trump - Salon.com


Editor:
Updated: Today
Topic:

Donald Trump

Donald Trump's racial discrimination problem

Donald Trump's forgotten discrimination problem
AP
Donald Trump in 1994

In an episode early in Donald Trump's career, his New York real estate company was sued by the federal government for discriminating against potential black renters. After a lengthy legal battle, it ultimately agreed to wide-ranging steps to offer rentals to nonwhites.

The little-remembered case provides crucial context for the current discussion centering on Trump and race. The celebrity businessman made news last month when he declared, "I have a great relationship with the blacks. I've always had a great relationship with the blacks."

He has recently come under fire for attacks on President Obama that critics have described as racially tinged. CBS anchor Bob Schieffer, for example, said Wednesday there is "an ugly strain of racism" in Trump's recent (baseless) accusations that President Obama should not have been admitted to Columbia. Also yesterday, Trump told a black reporter, unprompted, "Look I know you are a big Obama fan."

The discrimination case began in the earliest days of Trump's career, when he was still in his 20s.

Fred Trump, Donald's father, was, unlike his son, a self-made man. He made his fortune by building thousands of units of middle-class housing in Brooklyn and Queens. But in the early 1970s, Donald was made president of the family company.

One of Donald's first challenges came in October 1973, when the Justice Department hit the Trump Organization with a major discrimination suit for violating the Fair Housing Act. The Times reported:

... the Government contended that Trump Management had refused to rent or negotiate rentals "because of race and color." It also charged that the company had required different rental terms and conditions because of race and that it had misrepresented to blacks that apartments were not available.

The journalist Gwenda Blair reported in her 2005 Trump biography that while Fred Trump had sought to combat previous discrimination allegations through "quiet diplomacy," Donald decided to go on the offensive. He hired his friend Roy Cohn, the celebrity lawyer and former Joseph McCarthy aide, to countersue the government for making baseless charges against the company. They sought a staggering $100 million in damages.

A few months after the government filed the suit, Trump gave a combative press conference at the New York Hilton in which he went after the Justice Department for being too friendly to welfare recipients. He "accused the Justice Department of singling out his corporation because it was a large one and because the Government was trying to force it to rent to welfare recipients," the Times reported. Trump added that if welfare recipients were allowed into his apartments in certain middle-class outer-borough neighborhoods, there would be a "massive fleeing from the city of not only our tenants, but communities as a whole."

A federal judge threw out Trump's countersuit a month later, calling it a waste of "time and paper."

Writes Blair in her book:

Donald testified repeatedly that he had nothing to do with renting apartments, although in an application for a broker's license filed at the same time he said that he was in charge of all rentals.

In 1975, Trump ultimately came to a far-reaching agreement with the DOJ in which he and the company did not admit guilt but agreed not to discriminate and to take steps to open its housing stock to more nonwhites. The company agreed to submit a weekly list of vacancies to the Urban League, which would produce qualified applicants for a portion of all vacancies.

But it didn't end there. In 1978, the government filed a motion for supplemental relief, charging that the Trump company had not complied with the 1975 agreement. The government alleged that the Trump company "discriminated against blacks in the terms and conditions of rental, made statements indicating discrimination based on race and told blacks that apartments were not available for inspection and rental when, in fact, they are," the Times reported. Trump again denied the charges.

It's not clear what happened with the government's request for further action (and compensation for victims), but in 1983, a fair-housing activist cited statistics that two Trump Village developments had white majorities of at least 95 percent.

At the very least, the case is something for reporters to ask about next time Trump touts his "great relationship with the blacks."

(Hat tip to reader Linda Reynolds)

African Immigrants in Italy: A shadow of ethnic cleansing? - Afrik-news.com : Africa news, Maghreb news - The african daily newspaper

African Immigrants in Italy: A shadow of ethnic cleansing? - Afrik-news.com : Africa news, Maghreb news - The african daily newspaper


Editorials - Italy - Panafrica - Employment - Immigration - Racism
African Immigrants in Italy: A shadow of ethnic cleansing?
Xenophobia and racism propagated by the government and the media




To give a dog a bad name in order to hang it has become synonymous to the plight of African immigrants in Italy. The Italian government under Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, and his Interior Minister, Roberto Maroni have been accused of exploiting and inciting xenophobia and racism. Africans live in a war zone without protection.

Politicians have contributed in creating an atmosphere of fear, by blaming African migrants for every thing wrong with Italy- a propaganda that has rallied street vigilantes against African immigrants, and brought about racial-based violence and counter violent protests in Southern Italy. Reuters has described the events as "some of the worst racial violence in Italy since World War Two" when Italy allied with the Nazis.

According to Italian immigration laws, refugees without proper resident documentation can be locked up for six months. Illegal immigration can be punished by a fine of up to €10,000 and immigrants must pay €200 for an application for a residency permit. In addition, the new law requires that teachers, officials and sanitary personnel reject illegal immigrants, and it threatens landlords with prison who provide them [African immigrants] with housing.

The laws also legalize the introduction of civilian militias [vigilantes] to supplement the systematic use of soldiers to patrol city centers.

Italy, according to some Analysts, is now a climate reminiscent of Mississipi Burning, a 1988 film loosely based on the real-life murders of three civil rights workers in Mississippi in 1964. Analysts have also said the Italian regulations give support to fascistic elements and it does not only undermine the basic democratic rights of refugees, but those of the entire working population.

At the same time, the government’s campaign against immigrant workers is increasingly being used to provide a scapegoat for the country’s economic demise and deflect blame away from the ruling elite.

Italy, along with Spain, has one of Europe’s fastest-growing immigrant populations. Citing the Catholic charity, Caritas, immigrants in Italy now account for 7.2% of the resident population in the country. The estimated 4.5 million legal immigrants are said to contribute immensely to the Italian economy. Nonetheless, some influential politicians and the national media would not condone an integrated Italy.

With xenophobia, and resentment towards African immigrants propagated by the government and media, the killings have continued intermittently, and incessantly, in what many have termed a systematic, shadow ethnic cleansing of Africans from Italy.

Most recently, African migrants have taken to the streets in protest of the indiscriminate killings. On Thursday, Jan. 7, a gang of white youths in a car fired air rifles at a group of African immigrants returning from work on farms, injuring two of them. On Saturday Jan. 9, two African migrant workers were shot and two more beaten with iron bars, as racial unrest continued to grip the town of Rosarno in the south of Italy, a series of reports have claimed.

The attacks set off a night of rioting by dozens of Africans, who smashed car windows with steel bars and stones and set cars and rubbish bins on fire. Even as the African demonstrators marched through Rosarno to the town hall, local news reported that a resident fired shots into the air from his balcony, allegedly to protect his wife and child, who he said had had stones thrown at them by protesters. Nonetheless, the latest riot began as a protest against the insecure conditions in which the immigrants find themselves.

While the Africans rioted, interior minister, Roberto Maroni, sought to defend his hardline against the African migrants saying that the tolerance of clandestine immigration for all these years had fed the crime situation in the south. But according to observers, Mr. Maroni has not said a word about the shootings and beatings the African migrant workers have been victims of.

Nor has he mentioned the squalid living conditions at the unoccupied factory on the outskirts of town that serves as sleeping quarters for these workers from all over Africa who number in their thousands in and around the town of Rosarno.

Some 8,000 illegal immigrants work in the southern Calabria region where the clashes have erupted, most as day laborers picking fruit and vegetables. Many live in abandoned factories with no running water or electricity and human rights groups say they are exploited by organized crime.

Opposition leader, Pierluigi Bersani and several center-left politicians accused Maroni of fuelling the tension: "Maroni is passing the buck ... we have to go to the roots of the problem: Mafia, exploitation, xenophobia and racism," Bersani said.

Most, if not all, African migrant workers in the South of Italy are forced to live without sanitation, electricity, water or heating coupled with the racial and xenophobia motivated killings they face.

Several thousand immigrants live in and around Rosarno while helping with the harvest of oranges and clementines. The parish priest of Rosarno, Father Carmelo Ascone, said they reminded him of the circles of hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy.

These attack on African migrants and their subsequent counter-attack has resulted in a vicious cycle in the South of Italy. Furious about the violence and damage created by the rebelling African migrants, groups of locals occupied the town hall and blocked a main road, resulting in several clashes between locals and immigrant farm workers.

Another issue of concern by rights groups is the fact that Italy is also fast growing into a racist haven. There seem to be no serious stigma attached to the use of racist language in Italy today. Minister for reform and founder of the Northern League, Umberto Bossi, has been reported to call African migrants ‘bingo-bongos.’

The prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, this year was quoted as saying that the streets of Milan reminded him ‘of an African city’ these days. The European country has taken a hard line against illegal immigration and has moved to stem a tide of immigrants who board boats in Africa to try to reach its southern shores. Some boats have been turned back on the open seas.

Condemning the attacks and rallyng support for the immigrants, Pope Benedict XVI is quoted as saying: "An immigrant is a human being, different in where they came from, in their culture and tradition, but a person to respect who has rights and responsibilities."

"We have to go to the heart of the problem, of the significance of the human being," the Pope said.

4/26/11

Paul Krugman - Salon.com

Paul Krugman - Salon.com

l Krugman

Paul Krugman and the disillusioned left

A profile of Obama's toughest critic inspires liberal gloom. But is there an alternative history that makes sense?

Even though it recapitulates a narrative that has been explicit and endlessly discussed since the very beginning of the Obama administration -- leftist disillusionment with Obama -- Benjamin Wallace-Wells' New York Magazine profile of Paul Krugman, "What's Left of the Left," has been getting plenty of attention.

Maybe it's the paradoxical tone of Wallace-Wells' eloquently articulated elegy for liberalism -- Krugman's got a lot going for him, after all -- Nobel Prize, prominent public intellectual bully pulpit, hugely trafficked blog -- but somehow Wallace-Wells uses the profile to tell a story of defeat: of Obama's failure to deliver true progressive change, and Krugman's failure to get Washington to listen to his liberal "purism."

For close followers of the political and economic scene, Krugman's Obama critique is all too familiar: The stimulus should have been bigger, healthcare reform should have included a public option, the banks should have been nationalized, et cetera. Krugman staked out his position before Inauguration Day -- Obama is insufficiently aggressive and ambitious -- and he has stuck to it ever since. But for those on the left who are feeling a sense of outright betrayal, Krugman delivers a bit of a surprise:

Krugman has been suspicious of Obama since the beginning of the campaign, and his early doubts have remained. "It's not so much -- it's not a values difference. I think Obama was and is committed to the welfare state." What has always troubled him, Krugman says, is Obama's conviction "that we can find the center and work with these people." This seems to Krugman a deeply naive view of politics, though one that is pervasive in Washington. "There are really very, very few things, very few values issues on which both sides of our political divide agree," he says. "You may in the end get an agreement that involves both parties but is not bipartisan in any positive sense of the word."

The quote put me in mind of a telling moment during the conclusion of Obama's speech on the deficit two weeks ago, when the president alluded to the partisan warfare that had plagued his term.

Of course, there are those who simply say there's no way we can come together at all and agree on a solution to this challenge. They'll say the politics of this city are just too broken; the choices are just too hard; the parties are just too far apart.

And then with a wry smile and downcast eyes, Obama said "And after a few years on this job, I have some sympathy for this view."

It was a laugh line, but it was also an honest line -- and just happened to be in a speech that contained the boldest articulation of Democratic values that Obama has made during his term so far. The president could have been speaking directly to Krugman. He was, in part, acknowledging Krugman's point.

But who is really being naive here? Krugman's position is that Obama starts too far to the right and leaves himself little negotiation room -- that he reduces the politics of the possible. But you have to wonder whether Obama would have gotten any significant legislation accomplished if he had come out of the gate pushing for a much bigger stimulus, single-payer healthcare, and the nationalization of Citigroup.

Which scenario is more likely -- the current Republican party buckling to Obama's progressive vigor, or centrist Democrat senators fleeing for the hills, denying the White House 60 votes on any of its agenda items? I know where I'd lay my money down.

This is not to say that Obama couldn't have demonstrated more leadership. It's a fair criticism to argue that he too often allows his opponents to seize the initiative, and he hasn't been forceful enough in articulating his own vision. That's disappointing, but it's not betrayal -- it's not evidence that Obama is some kind of conservative mole, destroying what remains of liberal America from within. And it should not be confused with the notion that had he been more explicitly radical he would have achieved more -- that's simply not guaranteed at all.

The two Democratic presidents who built the vast majority of the liberal welfare state we know today, Franklin Roosevelt and Lyndon Johnson, operated under dramatically different political dynamics than does Obama. Their majorities were far bigger, the partisan divide wasn't set in concrete, and -- especially important -- the Senate was not a place that required a super-majority for every procedural step.

It's also worth noting that Lyndon Johnson's civil rights accomplishments were in large part responsible for the partisan reorganization of the United States that plagues us today -- the demise of the liberal northern Republican and the migration of southern Democratic conservatives to the GOP. Obama's tragedy may be that he is by nature a conciliator and a compromiser in an era that brooks no accommodation. But true disillusionment would require confidence that a different leader could have achieved much more. I think the opposite is more likely true -- a different leader could have dug us into an even deeper hole.

4/25/11

News from The Associated Press

News from The Associated Press

Rap music inspires Libyan rebels to defeat Gadhafi


AP Photo
AP Photo/Ben Curtis
Entertainment Video



Interactive
Inside Libya
Interactives
Italy to take part in bombing raids over Libya

Strike on Gadhafi compound badly damages buildings

Austria: Reporter missing in Libya believed alive

Libyan rebel oil production down for 4 more weeks

Rap music inspires Libyan rebels to defeat Gadhafi

Graham: Bomb Gadhafi's inner circle, end stalemate

Spanish photographer calls parents from Libya jail

DOD: First Predator strike carried out in Libya

Sarkozy plans visit to Libyan rebel stronghold

Growing discontent, armed attacks in Tripoli

Gambia expels pro-Gadhafi Libyan ambassador

McCain lauds anti-Gadhafi force during Libya visit

6 arrested in Sweden for Libyan Embassy break-in

2 Western photojournalists killed in Libya

2 brothers' lives upended in Libyan fight

Buy AP Photo Reprints

Multimedia
Libya Opening Doors to Tourists

AJDABIYA, Libya (AP) -- Libyan rebel fighter Jaad Jumaa Hashmi cranks up the volume on his pickup truck's stereo when he heads into battle against Moammar Gadhafi's forces.

He looks for inspiration from a growing cadre of amateur rappers whose powerful songs have helped define the revolution.

The music captures the anger and frustration young Libyans feel at decades of repressive rule under Gadhafi, driving the 27-year-old Hashmi forward even though the heavy machine gun bolted on the back of his truck - and other weapons in the rebel arsenal - are no match for Gadhafi's heavy artillery.

"It captures the youths' quest for freedom and a decent life and gives us motivation," Hashmi said as he sat in his truck on the outskirts of the front line city of Ajdabiya. He was listening to "Youth of the Revolution," which the rap group Music Masters wrote just days after the uprising began in mid-February.

"Moammar, get out, get out, game over! I'm a big, big soldier!" sang 20-year-old Milad Faraway, who started Music Masters with his friend and neighbor, 22-year-old Mohammed Madani, at the end of 2010.

Rather than grabbing AK-47s and heading to the front line with other rebels to fight Gadhafi's forces, Faraway and Madani stayed in Benghazi, the de facto capital of rebel-held eastern Libya, and picked up a microphone.

"Everyone has his own way of fighting, and my weapon is art," said Faraway, a geology student, during a recent recording session in a small room on the fourth floor of an aging apartment building in downtown Benghazi. The room was equipped with little more than a microphone, stereo and computer.

The room was decorated with a large red, black and green rebel flag and a framed photo of the Guns N' Roses guitarist Slash. Faraway and Madani smoked cigarettes and sipped steaming glasses of sweet tea as they recorded lyrics for their latest song, a tribute to cities caught up in the revolution.

The freewheeling rap scene developing in Benghazi indicates how much has changed in eastern Libya in the past two months. Speaking out against Gadhafi before the rebellion used to mean prison and maybe even death. And rap, like other forms of Western culture, was despised by Gadhafi, who burned foreign musical instruments and books after he seized power in 1969.

"I always wanted to talk about Gadhafi's mistakes and crimes, but we never had the chance for free speech," said Madani, who is the son of a famous local singer in Benghazi and works part-time in his family's cell phone and car parts shops. "All you could talk about was how good Gadhafi's revolution was."

Faraway, who like many rappers in Benghazi is known by his nickname, "Dark Man," and Madani, aka "Madani Lion," form the core of Music Masters, but the composition of the group has changed over time. One of the rappers quit just after the uprising started because he feared being targeted by Gadhafi's thugs, Madani said. The group recently added 24-year-old Rami Raki, aka "Ram Rak," who grew up in Manchester, England.

Many of the songs that Music Masters and other groups have recorded in the past two months feature rapid fire lyrics reminiscent of Eminem. The lyrics ridicule Gadhafi and lambast him for his treatment of the country in the past four decades.

"Gadhafi, open your eyes wide and you will see that the Libyan people just broke through the fear barrier," sang the group Revolution Beat in their song "17 February," a reference to the so-called "Day of Rage" when protesters took to the streets in several towns and clashed with security forces.

Roughly a dozen rap songs recorded since the start of the rebellion have been put on CDs with rebel-inspired album covers and are available for sale in downtown Benghazi. One cover has a drawing of fighters on a captured Gadhafi tank flying the rebel flag.

Some of the songs mix Arabic and English, a testament to the American origins of rap. When the rappers perform in public, which is rare, they wear baggy pants, T-shirts and baseball caps typical of many American rappers.

Rap is not the only style of music that has been used to create anthems for the revolution, but Mutaz al-Obeidi, a 23-year-old member of Revolution Beat, said it was uniquely positioned to appeal to Libya's youth.

"Rap is more popular than rock and country among the young people in Libya because it expresses anger and frustration," said al-Obeidi, an English student, standing in a small recording studio in the official rebel media center in Benghazi that is used by Revolution Beat.

"The guys at the media center contacted us and said you guys have a rap group and we want rap to be part of the revolution," said Youssef al-Briki, 24, who started Revolution Beat with Islam Winees, 21, in 2007, but originally called the group Street Beat.

Al-Briki, aka "SWAT," works as a garbage man, and Winees, known as "A.Z.," is a small-time businessman. Both have the tough-guy vibe of gangsta rappers and expressed admiration for Tupac Shakur, who was shot and killed in Las Vegas in 1996.

"He's a real rapper. He's a thug," Winees said.

Al-Briki said he looks forward to writing the first song after Gadhafi is ousted.

What will it be called?

"Finally He Did It," said al-Briki.

Donald Trump's electric putdown: Robert De Niro 'not the brightest bulb' - Juana Summers - POLITICO.com

Donald Trump's electric putdown: Robert De Niro 'not the brightest bulb' - Juana Summers - POLITICO.com

Donald Trump's electric putdown: Robert De Niro 'not the brightest bulb'

Donald Trump says Robert De Niro's no genius for lashing out at Trump’s questions about President Barack Obama’s birth certificate.

Text Size

  • -
  • +
  • reset

DeNiro knocks Trump, Trump responds

"He's not the brightest bulb in the planet," Trump said on “Fox & Friends” Monday morning. "I like his acting, but in terms of when I watch him doing interviews and various other things, we're not dealing with Albert Einstein."

De Niro had gone after Trump in an earlier interview with NBC, criticizing him for trumpeting so-called birther claims that have been widely discredited.

"It’s like a big hustle. It’s like being a car salesman," said De Niro, who campaigned for Obama in 2008. "Don’t go out there and say things unless you can back them up. How dare you? That’s awful to do. To just go out and speak and say these terrible things? Unless you just want to get over and get the job. It’s crazy.”

Responding Monday, Trump insisted: "[De Niro] can say what he wants, but the fact is that this guy has not revealed his birth certificate. A lot of people agree with me."



4/24/11

Urban Montage by Charlene Weisler

Urban Montage by Charlene Weisler

American Folk Art Graffiti Show in June 2011

Street Art and "Outsider" Art is coming inside. One of my favorite street artists Judith Supine currently has a gallery show in LA and the Museum of Contemporary Art in LA is showing Art of the Street. And coming in June, the New York based Museum of American Folk Art is offering graffiti based art that will also have representation in the Venice Biennale. Read more:

This June, the American Folk Art Museum (AFAM) will have its premiere exhibition at the Venice Biennale, showcasing the work of eight contemporary, self-taught African-American artist—including old school graffiti legends Blade, Daze, Quik, and Sharp. This is the first time the Museum will be presenting this kind of work, as the exhibition is an exploration of the work of contemporary African-American self-taught artists. Paired with four African-American artists from outside New York, this exhibition explores issues of race and class in the American art world. Who becomes a self-taught artist (commonly known as the folk or outsider artist) is often determined by these two factors.

AFAM has partnered with Benetton to host this exhibition as one of the official collateral events of the Biennale at the historic Fondaco dei Tedeschi, right next to the Bridge of Sighs, on the Grand Canal. This exhibition will mark the very first time contemporary self-taught artists will be shown at the Venice Biennale.

The exhibition will showcase the work of:

  • Graffiti’s old masters Steven Ogburn (a.k.a. Blade), Chris Ellis (a.k.a. Daze), Lin Felton (a.k.a. Quik), and Aaron Goodstone (a.k.a. Sharp) will represent different aspects of the urban vernacular of this art form. (On a side note, all of these artists will be exhibiting in “Art in the Streets” at the Museum of Contemporary Art, LA).
  • Lonnie Holley, Gregory Warmack (a.k.a. Mr. Imagination), Charlie Lucas (a.k.a. Tin Man) and Kevin Sampson represent the virtuosity of African American Contemporary Outsider artists.


Each will execute an original site-specific installation for the Fondaco dei Tedeschi. In pairing these two distinctive yet complementary approaches to art making and using the building’s architecture as inspiration for the work itself, this exhibition tells a great American story to an international audience.

You might also like:

4/23/11

Birtherism: Where it all began - POLITICO.com Print View

Birtherism: Where it all began - POLITICO.com Print View

Birtherism: Where it all began
By: Ben Smith and Byron Tau
April 22, 2011 04:22 AM EDT

Just when it appeared that public interest was fading, celebrity developer Donald Trump has revived the theory that President Barack Obama was born overseas and helped expose the depth to which the notion has taken root—a New York Times poll Thursday found that a plurality of Republicans believe it.

If you haven’t been trolling the fever swamps of online conspiracy sites or opening those emails from Uncle Larry, you may well wonder: Where did this idea come from? Who started it? And is there a grain of truth there?

The answer lies in Democratic, not Republican politics, and in the bitter, exhausting spring of 2008. At the time, the Democratic presidential primary was slipping away from Hillary Clinton and some of her most passionate supporters grasped for something, anything that would deal a final reversal to Barack Obama. (See: Bachmann: Birther issue settled)

The theory’s proponents are a mix of hucksters and earnest conspiracy theorists, including prominently a lawyer who previously devoted himself to ‘proving’ that the Sept. 11 attacks were an inside job. Its believers are primarily people predisposed to dislike Obama. That willingness to believe the worst about officials of the opposite party is a common feature of presidential rumor-mongering: In 2006, an Ohio University/Scripps Howard poll found that slightly more than half of Democrats said they suspected the Bush Administration of complicity in the Sept. 11 attacks.

While there is no grain of truth to either fantasy, there’s something else when it comes to Obama: A visceral reaction against him, a deep sense that the first black president, with liberal views and a Muslim name, must be—in some concrete, provable way—foreign. (See: Mitt: Obama born here. Period.)

A brief history of birtherism

Birtherism is the latest and most enduring version of a theory in search of facts.

The original smear against Obama was that he was a crypto-Muslim, floated in 2004 by perennial Illinois political candidate and serial litigant Andy Martin. Other related versions of this theory alleged that Obama was educated in an Indonesian “madrassa” or steeped in Islamist ideology from a young age, and the theories began to spread virally after Obama appeared on the national stage – to the casual observer, from nowhere – with his early 2007 presidential campaign announcement. (See: Obama kin: Birther rumors 'a shame')

All through that year, the Obama campaign – with the affirmation of most leaders of both parties – aggressively battled that smear by emphasizing his Christian faith. Obama’s controversial but emphatically Christian pastor emerged as a campaign issue and the belief that he was a Muslim seemed to lose traction. (See: Clinton: Birther claims 'ludicrous')

Then, as Obama marched toward the presidency, a new suggestion emerged: That he was not eligible to serve. (See: Birther debate alive across U.S.)

That theory first emerged in the spring of 2008, as Clinton supporters circulated an anonymous email questioning Obama’s citizenship.

“Barack Obama’s mother was living in Kenya with his Arab-African father late in her pregnancy. She was not allowed to travel by plane then, so Barack Obama was born there and his mother then took him to Hawaii to register his birth,” asserted one chain email that surfaced on the urban legend site Snopes.com in April 2008.

Another early version of the theory, reported by the Chicago Tribune in June 2008, depended on a specious legal theory that was, for a time, the heart of the argument: that Obama was born in Hawaii but had a Kenyan father, and his mother was only 18 years old. Therefore, under existing immigration law, he was not eligible for automatic citizenship upon birth — a claim that depended on an understandable, but incorrect, reading of immigration law. Other theories suggested that Obama lost his U.S. citizenship when he moved to Indonesia or visited Pakistan in violation of a supposed State Department ban as a young man. (There was no such ban.)

But it dawned on even the most stubborn anti-Obama lawyers that federal courts were not going to recognize their exotic theories of citizenship, and they narrowed their focus on a claim that, if true, might have disqualified Obama, and resonated with the impulse to view him as foreign.

No single author claims parentage for this theory, now advanced by Trump. Even Martin disavows what became the heart of contemporary birther theory – that the president was born in Kenya and smuggled back into the country.

“I’m absolutely convinced he was born in Hawaii,” he told POLITICO.

Jerome Corsi, who would later become a prominent proponent of birther theories, neglected to mention the Obama birth cover-up conspiracy in his 2008 book, “Obama Nation,” instead claiming, without evidence, that Obama maintained both American and Kenyan citizenship. He didn’t respond to POLITICO’s request for comment.

But while the identity of the First Birther is lost to the mists of chain email, one of the first to put his name to the theory was Phil Berg, a former Pennsylvania deputy attorney general who had spent the previous years accusing President George W. Bush of complicity in the Sept. 11 attack.

Berg filed a complaint in federal District court on August 21, 2008 that alleged, “Obama carries multiple citizenships and is ineligible to run for President of the United States. United States Constitution, Article II, Section 1.”

“All the efforts of supporters of legitimate citizens were for nothing because the Obama cheated his way into a fraudulent candidacy and cheated legitimately eligible natural born citizens from competing in a fair process and the supporters of their citizen choice for the nomination,” the suit claims.

The debunking

Ironically, the birther movement didn’t really take off in earnest until the Obama team tried to debunk it.

In June 2008, National Review conservative blogger Jim Geraghty, after debunking a number of conspiracy theories about Obama floated by fellow conservatives, asked the Obama campaign to “return the favor” and just release his birth certificate to the public to put to rest questions about both Obama’s birth and whether, as enemies claimed, his middle name was “Mohammed.”

A few days later, the Obama campaign did exactly that.

They posted Obama’s certificate of live birth on their “Fight the Smears” website and gave a copy to the liberal website Daily Kos. It was greeted with immediate cries that it was a fake.

But Geraghty was satisfied, writing “this document is what he or someone authorized by him was given by the state out of its records. Barring some vast conspiracy within the Hawaii State Department of Health, there is no reason to think his [original] birth certificate would have any different data.”

But others were not swayed. The release of the certificate was declared a forgery. Some bloggers pounced, saying it had Adobe Photoshop watermarks that suggested tampering, that it lacked a raised seal, that it lacked a signature and a number of other accusations.

So began round two.

FactCheck.org, the non-partisan website, was allowed to examine the physical copy of the birth certificate in August 2008, and concluded it was real, that it had a raised seal, a signature and met all the State Department criteria for proof of citizenship. Combined with the state’s recognition that the record was real—and contemporary newspaper announcements of Obama’s birth, submitted by the hospitals —they concluded that he was a natural born citizen.

Hawaii has repeatedly confirmed the document’s authenticity.

“I, Dr. Chiyome Fukino, director of the Hawai’i State Department of Health, have seen the original vital records maintained on file by the Hawai’i State Department of Health verifying Barrack (sic) Hussein Obama was born in Hawai’i and is a natural-born American citizen,” one exasperated state official said in 2008 and again in 2009 in a statement.

“Of course, it’s distantly possible that Obama’s grandparents may have planted the announcement just in case their grandson needed to prove his U.S. citizenship in order to run for president someday,” FactCheck concluded. But, “those who choose to go down that path should first equip themselves with a high-quality tinfoil hat.”

Birthers have provided no serious response to this evidence, though the technicalities can confuse a casual observer.

The website World Net Daily, for instance, has written that “Hawaii at the time of Obama’s birth allowed births that took place in foreign countries to be registered in Hawaii.” But that law was not enacted until 1982 which was 21 years after Obama's birth was registered. Further, such a birth certificate would show the actual foreign place of birth instead of listing – as Obama’s does — Honolulu.

In addition to declaring the document a forgery, the birther movement’s main response – echoed by the ill-informed Trump - has been to claim that only a “long form” birth certificate can be valid. But the document shown by Obama is the only one the State of Hawaii is permitted, by law, to release. It is accepted as valid by the government entities like the State Department.

Hawaii law prevents the long-form record from being photocopied or released to anyone — including Obama. Obama himself would only be permitted to inspect it – not copy it or post it online.

Fukino, an appointee of Linda Lingle, the former Republican governor and John McCain supporter, twice inspected the certificate. According to NBC News’ investigative correspondent Michael Isikoff, the certificate is in a bound volume, in a file cabinet in the Hawaii Department of Health.

“Why would a Republican governor — who was stumping for the other guy — hold out on a big secret?” asked Fukino.

By the summer of 2009, then-White House press secretary Robert Gibbs summarized how convoluted the theory had become with each round of disclosures.

“A pregnant woman leaves her home to go overseas to have a child — who there’s not a passport for — so is in cahoots with someone…to smuggle that child, that previously doesn’t exist on a government roll somewhere back into the country and has the amazing foresight to place birth announcements in the Hawaii newspapers? All while this is transpiring in cahoots with those in the border, all so some kid named Barack Obama could run for President 46 and a half years later,” said Gibbs dismissively. “You couldn’t sell this script in Hollywood.”

The forgeries and the lawsuits

As Obama built a commanding lead in the polls, and was eventually became President-elect, a host of lawsuits were filed to prevent him from taking the oath of office. These lawsuits were combined with a letter-writing campaign to presidential electors as well as a fringe media campaign questioning Obama’s citizenship.

Berg’s August 2008 lawsuit wasn’t the last. A few days after Obama decisively won the election, Alan Keyes — Obama’s former opponent in the 2004 Senate race and a presidential candidate — filed a suit against the Secretary of State in California over Obama’s eligibility. Another suit was filed by a New Jersey man, Leo Donofrio.

A California dentist and lawyer, Orly Taitz, filed another round of suits. Every citizenship suit has been dismissed, and courts have slapped or threatened fines on some of the filers, including Taitz.

And with both the law and the facts against them, birthers have sought to create facts and documents of their own.

Taitz unveiled a purported Kenyan birth certificate in the summer of 2009. It was clearly a hoax – the Republic of Kenya didn’t exist when Obama was born, it was dated three years after his actual birth date, it didn’t match other contemporary Kenyan birth certificates and an anonymous blogger took credit for it, demonstrating with photos how the birthers were “punked” and how he produced the fake certificate.

“Fine cotton business paper: $11. Inkjet printer: $35,” wrote the blogger. “Punkin’ the Birthers: Priceless.”

A second Kenyan certificate was put on eBay in 2009, and Taitz again try to have it admitted into court as evidence, despite being an obvious hoax. And yet another hoax showed a fake sign that reads “Welcome to Kenya, Birthplace of Barack Obama” – that is both clearly Photoshopped and contains Arabic script welcoming visitors to a city in the United Arab Emirates.

The birther purge


In a 2008 story about campaign rumors concerning both Obama and McCain, POLITICO reported “whichever candidate wins, these campaign trail rumors will haunt his presidency.”

They have.

The Republican Party has approached the issue with trepidation, but a 2010 poll found more than a quarter of Americans have doubts about President Obama’s birthplace.

During the 2010 midterm campaigns, a number of Republican candidates went on record expressing doubts about President Obama’s birth. Rep. Nathan Deal, now Governor of Georgia, jumped on the birther bandwagon, becoming the first member of Congress to request Obama’s birth certificate.

Sen. David Vitter (R-La.) said, “I personally don’t have standing to bring litigation in court, but I support conservative legal organizations and others who would bring that to court.” Rep. Jean Schmidt (R-Ohio) told a voter that she agreed with her that the President wasn’t a natural-born citizen — only to walk back her statements.

The party’s most prominent leaders, however, have firmly dismissed the notion and sought to purge birthers both from the Republican Party and from the comments section of conservative blogs.

“I believe the president was born in the United States. There are real reasons to get this guy out of office,” former Massachusetts Gov. Mitt Romney said recently.

“I don’t question the authenticity of his birth certificate, but I do question what planet he’s from when I look at his policies,” former Minnesota Gov. Tim Pawlenty joked.

Erick Erickson, editor of the influential conservative blog RedState publicly excommunicated the birthers from his site in 2010.

“If you think 9/11 was an inside job or you really want to debate whether or not Barack Obama is an American citizen eligible to be President, RedState is not a place for you,” he wrote.

Some Republicans take the position out of a basic respect for facts, but they also worry about its consequences for their party.

“It makes us look weird. It makes us look crazy. It makes us look demented. It makes us look sick, troubled, and not suitable for civilized company,” one of the first conservatives to turn against the birthers, talk show host Michael Medved, said in 2009. “I’m not a conspiracist, but this could be a very big conspiracy to make conservatives disgrace themselves.”

Corrections: An earlier version of this story misidentified the Ohio University poll. Also, an earlier version of this article did not note that the foreign registration of birth law did not come into effect until 1982.

© 2011 Capitol News Company, LLC

4/19/11

BBC - Travel - Street art attracts tourists : Arts & Architecture, New York City

BBC - Travel - Street art attracts tourists : Arts & Architecture, New York City

Urban art attracts tourists

15 April 2011 | By Colleen Clark
street art

The Inside Out project in Tunisia. (JR)

When Parisian artist JR won the Ted prize earlier this month, it was a formal recognition of the ways in which street art have been transforming neighborhoods.

The 25 year old covers entire buildings in slums from Rio to Nairobi in large format photos of inhabitants. In addition to challenging perceptions of those populations, the projects beautify the neighbourhoods, turning them into art pieces that attract tourist interest (and dollars).

Last year, international paint company Dulux launched a similar project called Let's Colour, which tasked locals with turning whole neighborhoods Technicolor. Neighbourhoods in India, Turkey, South Africa and Holland have been transformed into vivid cityscapes.

However in urban centres like New York, historic street art continues to be threatened by gentrification. The latest imperilled work is the landmark Five Pointz, in Queens, New York. Since 1993, owner Jerry Wolkoff has allowed graffiti artists to use the 200,000 square-foot factory space rent free. Artists have travelled from as far as Japan and Brazil to contribute to the more than 350 murals spanning the five-story, block long complex.

Longtime Five Pointz gallery curator and graffiti legend Jonathan Cohen, aka Meres One, wanted to turn the complex into a street art museum. But Wolkoff has announced plans for a $350 million project to redevelop the space into two 40-storey residential buildings.

Street art fans throughout the world have responded with petitions and pleas to have the site landmarked. "Somewhere down the line when street art is looked at as equal to other art forms, people are really gonna regret the fact that Five Pointz is gone. It is a museum, it's just never been called that," Cohen said. Wolkoff didn't return calls for comment.

Gabriel Schoenberg, CEO of Graffiti Tours New York, called Five Pointz one of the most significant street art establishments in the world. "It is important for all people, especially children, to see that the medium of graffiti can be used in beautifully creative and legal ways," he said.

What do you think? Is the presence of well-regarded street art enough to merit the preservation of a building? Or is street art by nature a transitory medium? And do you seek out street art when you're traveling? Weigh in on our Facebook page.

To Hell and Back: On The Road With Black Feminism

To Hell and Back: On The Road With Black Feminism

To Hell and Back:
On The Road with Black Feminism in the 60s & 70s



by Michele Wallace



It gets harder and harder to say why and how I became a black feminist twenty six years ago when I was only 18. Over the years, I feel as though I have passed through at least three or four different lives; I've been old, over the hill, in despair, and even nearly dead more than once. I have also been reduced to infancy and total helplessness more times than I care to remember. The girl I was at the chronological age of 18 is only a vague memory to me, someone I once knew and understood a long time ago.

More to the point perhaps, I had no inkling at 18 that I would still be explaining 26 years later why or how I, as a black woman, became a feminist. The necessity of doing so is all the more aggravating as I have come to realize in the past decade that my feminist ethics and my racial pride are no more than the tip of the iceberg so far as my identity goes.


Some unimaginative types, most persistently in the provinces, continue to believe that a black woman must be brainwashed by white culture in order to voluntarily call herself a feminist. In fact, it has never been easier for me to be a black feminist than it is right now. Perhaps because I haven't been anything else for so many years, I find it difficult to imagine how women who are not feminists stand themselves. Essentially, I've given up on most other kinds of speculative political thought or activism anyway so why not go completely futuristic and visionary? You might say that my preferred political perspective has taken on an almost science fiction-type improbability.


Granted I have to admit that part of the security and satisfaction of my present life is inextricably linked to my ten year old relationship with the so called "enemy"--hubby bear Gene, the love of my life and my soulmate. I am also cognizant of the fact that many Americans, maybe particularly black Americans, are laboring under the misapprehension that feminism precludes marriage and/or a satisfactory relationship with a male. But the problem of loneliness and isolation, which is perhaps global, or at least postmodern, hasn't much to do with feminism, or even with its opposition. The odds are very much against any of us finding and/or remaining with the "right" person (if you still believe in such a thing) for all sorts of substantial socio-economic and cultural reasons. Start with the fact that looking probably doesn't help, and that nothing in our upbringing, in our culture or our history (aside from the popular notion of romantic love, always unrequited) teaches us to value our own time enough to want to find the "one" that we're living to mate with, the other half of our solitude. Is it luck or acculturation that renders some of us blissfully settled with what feels like just the right complement, and others of us consigned to roam, or to settle for a restless autonomy? (I don't believe that shit about a Zen-like isolation, such as Zora Neale gave Janey at the end of Their Eyes Were Watching God.)
My observation is that those who really need somebody, find somebody. Those who don't, wander, enriching the world all the more as they go, as a result. Apart from everything else that has to do with our complex individual psychological development, as social critic Barbara Ehrenreich has said, the social structure of patriarchy in whatever form you choose--from the U.S.Senate to the church--has become increasingly unstable. This means that the economic and political function of the nuclear family is deteriorating beneath our feet. So what are we who are so suddenly orphaned turning into? Nobody quite knows. Basically, you're on your own when it comes to the conceptualization of a mate, or whether or not you even bother.

As it happens, I am a feminist. I have mated, although I haven't had any children. All of this has to do with shifts in the patriarchy, which is to say if the patriarchy (and along with it old fashioned capitalism) weren't on shifting ground, a woman like me probably would have had children. But, as it happens, I find myself frankly relieved that I haven't dared. Between the needs of my sister's three, the demands of my vocation as cultural critic and my pleasure at being a perpetual child to my husband's parent and vice versa, there has never been any space. Sometimes I think of the four children I might have had, or of the four abortions, and the fact that they were for three of the brightest, most interesting men I've known. The children would have been fascinating if they had survived their unwilling parents. Which was a risk I still stand unwilling to take. Given that there are so many other unwanted children--visibly grown and otherwise--in need of recognition, courting and nurturance, I prefer the living to the dead.

For the umpteenth time, I find myself reflecting on the myriad factors which led me down the curious path of my feminist persuasion, never satisfied with the answer, wanting to tell a story about it that will finally satisfy everybody, including me. I would have to say I have been inclined to revolutionary politics and radical gestures of one kind or another at least since the seventh grade, perhaps in rebellion against elementary school at the exceedingly dull and pedantic Our Savior Lutheran School in the rural Bronx.


To give you some idea of the extent of the brainwashing in this parochial institution, my typically colored family regarded my sister and me with horror as we plastered our bedroom walls with pro-Nixon stickers during the presidential campaign of 1960, which (no thanks to us) Kennedy finally won. When we started bringing home jokes about Jews and Catholics, my mother thought it high time that we move on. Indeed the pivotal occasion was a run-in with the racism of my sixth grade teacher about which I subsequently wrote a short story (my first, a prize-winner and published three times) in my sophomore year at college.
After Our Savior, our next stop was the ultra-progressive, ultra-rad and boho New Lincoln School, no longer in existence but then located in a lovely old building on 110th Street on the mutual borders of black Harlem, Spanish Harlem and the Upper Eastside. My fellow students ranged from the son of Susan Sontag(David Rieff) and the daughter of Harry Belafonte (Shari Belafonte) to the sons and daughters of the likes of Robert Rauschenberg, Maureen O'Sullivan and Zero Mostel.


Other luminaries to be were, Tisa Farrell (sister of Mia), Robin Bartlett and Deborah Offner (actresses), Stanley Nelson (the filmmaker), Jill Nelson (the writer), Adrian Piper (the artist), Billy Boulware (the tv director), Suzanne DePasse (film and tv producer), Thelma Golden (a mere baby) and so on and so forth. This isn't just a list of the rich and famous but rather is meant to give some idea of how abruptly New Lincoln managed to change my vision of things to come. It was like going from a warm bath to an ice cold shower. Suddenly I was no longer in Dick-and-Jill land but in something like real time. While it may have been the fashion among a certain tier of the well-off and famous to toy with a radical milieu in education, this game didn't cohere with my mother's ambitions for me. She was more serious. Thanks to the rise of unionization among both teachers (my mother and my aunt) and General Motors assembly line workers (my stepfather), financially I regarded us as comfortable but no matter how much I fantasized, we still weren't rich.

As it so happened, just as we were making the momentous change to New Lincoln, everything else in the world was changing as well, which continued to lend my experience at New Lincoln a certain gravity. The first year I was at New Lincoln, in the seventh grade, John F. Kennedy was killed in the streets of Dallas. I can remember trying to explain to my best friend of the moment, the daughter of a soap opera star, why I was unable to cry about it--afterall, what was he to me? In the same school year, under my most beloved teacher Helen Myers, we studied Eastern cultures, from the food (which we prepared in cooking classes) and religions to the history and literature; for my project, I led my class in a day of Buddhist observance. During the year I was in the eighth grade, just as I was getting to know him, Malcolm X was shot down like a dog in the Audobon Ballroom. This event positively rocked Harlem, the community I lived in, and my youngish parents with it. No one uptown was ever quite the same. Meanwhile, I was directing my fellow students in a production of "The Diary of Anne Frank," a book I adored, along with the memoirs of Helen Keller, and every other book I could find about the growing up of sad little girls. Once I had lost my religious faith amongst all those irreligious leftist Jews at New Lincoln, I never regained it.


Going to New Lincoln was the first of many radicalizing transformations, interior and exterior. Among my classmates were Red Diaper babies and the children of those who had been blacklisted by McCarthy, sometimes overlapping with the rich and/or famous. What may have been happening was that the taint of McCarthy was finally washing away in the blood of the sixties. Our assemblies featured Peace Activist folk singers, speakers from SNCC and the Civil Rights Movement. We listened to the music of Leadbelly and John Cage and we sang the songs of Pete Seeger in our classes. The first anti-Vietnam War demonstration I attended was a class outing in the eighth grade. But the major proof I now have that New Lincoln was exceptional is that it no longer exists in these evil times. It simply vanished, like cheap housing.


Meanwhile, as a full time resident of Harlem, I was going to the Apollo with my neighborhood friends every Saturday afternoon. We watched show after show, as long as they let us, of the Drifters, the Supremes, Jerry Butler, Jackie Wilson, the Temptations, the Marvelettes, Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions, Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight and the Pips.
Schoolmate Jill Nelson and I started a singing group with two other girls at New Lincoln modelled after the Marvelettes and we actually dared to perform at the eighth grade dance our version of "Please Mr. Postman"--a humbling experience.
So it should come as no surprise that at the fragile age of 13, and in the midst of a local and international world that seemed convulsed with revolution and upheaval, that I decided that life would no longer be possible without first meeting Smokey Robinson. I was very much a doer and at least this was something I could do. So it was just the most natural thing in the world for me to call the Apollo Theatre while he was featured there and ask to speak to his manager. I told him that I was a reporter for the school newspaper (my school had none), and that I wanted an interview with Smokey.


Having actually gotten an appointment for the next day, somehow arranging to miss school and with my most grown up makeup on, my sister, my best friend and I trotted over to the stage door of the Apollo our hearts in our mouths, and were ushered in to meet not only Smokey Robinson and all the Miracles but also all of the various Temptations, and Wilson Pickett as well. At the time I didn't even know who Wilson Pickett was. That day I had a preview of something I wasn't quite ready to know yet about the second class world of black celebrity: the fact that they were so accessible, in comparison to what my white classmates went through to get a peek at the Beatles or other white stars, and that backstage at the Apollo was so unbelievably shabby, killed whatever romantic notion I had previously had of their tier of showbiz.


So at 14, as we were entering the "Soul" period in popular music, I was already disillusioned about the magical powers of rhythm n' blues. The fan in me was dead. With somewhat more serious political intentions, I took myself alone down to the SNCC office to volunteer to go South on the busrides. The lessons of the 6 o'clock news, bringing bulletins from the front in Mississippi and Vietnam had not been wasted on me. I was genuinely surprised when the workers at the office suggested that I was too young. I have no idea what made me think they needed me but I was hopelessly in love with Stockley Carmichael.


Then at 15, I was sent off to Paris for the summer with my beloved grandmother, Momma Jones, a Harlem fashion designer who called herself Madame Posey, who was most intent on gaining admittance to the showings of the couture collections. My mother Faith Ringgold, the artist, was approaching her mature development as an artist and needed time to paint. It was the summer of 1967, and the revels to come in 1968 were already very much in the air on the Left Bank. At French lessons at the Alliance Francaises on the Boulevard de Raspail, my sister and I rubbed shoulders with an international student clientele, enabling us to escape periodically the protective gaze of Momma Jones.


On those escapades, I was intent on pretending to be older. I have no idea how successful I was, but I remember much of this period as a time when I had no clear boundaries: I had convinced myself that I looked at least 19 or 20 to the young Africans, Caribbeans, Italians and Greeks gathered there. Smoking French cigarettes and drinking espresso helped bolster my courage. I have no idea if I fooled anyone. It seemed as though wherever we travelled, the newstands were always screaming the latest scandal of the Civil Rights Movement in the South. Between that and Vietnam, it didn't feel like such a great time to be American.
After the summer of 1968, when I assistant taught dance at the School of Music and Art, I flopped all over the place during my senior year in high school. I was an extremely indifferent student, my one claim to fame that I managed an incredibly high score on the SATS after two prior attempts. Boyfriends were already comandeering a good portion of my attention.


Having decided somewhat haphazardly to audition for Juilliard, I sabotaged myself by quiting my preparatory work at Arthur Mitchell's new dance school in Harlem in the middle of a class with the Master Karl Shook because, I told myself, ballet was simply too apolitical. I ended up with Barbara Ann Teer's New Age National Black Theatre for a spell, where I met the Last Poets, dancers Kimako (Amiri's sister) and Michele Murray (Albert Murray's daughter who was with Alvin Ailey then), Duane Hanson(star of that Bill Gunn movie Ganja and Hess).


The National Black Theatre was a cathartic experience for me because of its philosophy that middle class Negroes were brainwashed and in need of debriefing. It held out the promise of a transformative blackness. Working there was a ritual healing; it was a place where you could discard all your inhibitions, of which I had a ton. I was so incredibly self-conscious, it is hard to imagine now. Meanwhile I was getting a lot of attention, mainly because of the way I looked. I had had excema in my early adolescence and been as homely as a flea, but I had been cured by a fancy Fifth avenue dermatologist and now I was beautiful, or so everybody said.


At New Lincoln, since I was seriously getting into my militant and fed-up-with whitey phase, I started a black student organization that never could find much to protest in a private school that was already 25% black. I finally hit on boosting Puerto Rican enrollment as a demand. I'll never forget that it was Nat Hentoff's stepdaughter Mara Wolinski (perhaps in a foreshadowing of her father's subsequent proclivity for anti-black nationalist rants) who seemed to be the only person in the school who considered the students of color organizing themselves as a personal affront.


By graduation, I can only suppose (since I was in a semi-conscious state) the curriculum was in such disarray from keeping pace with the reverberations of JFK's assassination, the Columbia Riots, SNCC, the Peace Movement, the sexual revolution and the marijuana craze, all of which seemed to come to a head that year, that we hardly managed to produce a yearbook. Classmates Chris Rauchenberg and Tim Lutz took a lot of crazy, lopsided photographs. By June of 1969, our principal was black (Harold Haizlip), our assistant principal was black (Mabel Smythe) and the head of the high school was black (Verne Oliver, the mother of one of the future leaders of the Combahee Collective) and our keynote speaker at graduation was the newly minted Broadway star (Great White Hope) James Earl Jones.


During graduation, I was actually in another zone. I remember that I had begun to wear my hair in an uncombed style, something like the early stages of what we now know as dreadlocks. At the ceremony, Momma Jones complained that the parents looked as bad as the kids. In particular, she pointed out to Faith the tangled hair and blue jeans of Robert Rauschenberg, who was sitting with John Cage just in front of them. "No wonder we can't get Michele to comb her hair." Some of the kids had on jeans. Some were barefoot. Some showed clear signs of the fact that they were smoking marijuana with their parents on a nightly basis. The music had been written by students, and was sublimely dissonant and jarring, after Cage.


For me, it was not a sobering moment but the reverse. I had no desire to go to college so far as I knew but wanted to graduate immediately to autonomy and revolution. My guidance counselor, Verne Oliver, had taken the precaution of applying for me to Howard University (my choice) and the City College of New York on my behalf. I guess Faith was busting out all over in her development as an artist and hadn't the time, energy or fortitude to devote to my situation after having spent so much money on private schools and camps.

Becoming a black feminist in the 70s had not only to do with the times but it also had everything to do with being the daughter of the ambitious, fiercely militant and driven black artist, Faith Ringgold. My family was made up of women who were either superwomen of one kind or another, or women who just couldn't cope on almost any level. From an early age you were expected to declare which one you would be, although I didn't learn this until much later.


In retrospect, I imagine that I was driving my mother, who had never wanted children to begin with, crazy. She seemed to have little idea how bad things could get. Remember this was the 60s, which had followed the 50s, 40s and 30s, the latter humbling decade the one in which my mother was born. After so much money on private school, etcetera, how much could go wrong?
When Faith sent my sister and me to Mexico for the summer, I can fully understand why she was relieved to finally have us out of her hair for a short time, although in her place, I would not have allowed my girls out of my sight, but then that may also be why I have never had children. I could never stomach the odds.


As for me then, I was 17 and simply mad for revolution; my sixteen year old sister, Barbara, who was nearly fluent in Spanish and French and quick as grease, wasn't much better. Mexico City, which had been the scene of student revolution the summer before, turned out to be precisely the right place to continue my research. Given my sister's facility in Spanish, it didn't take us long to join a commune in the countryside outside of the city. When I told Faith that I had no desire to return to the U.S. but wished to spend the rest of my life in Mexico, I was ordered home not only by her but also by the U.S. government. To make a long story short, I ended up in a facility for juvenile delinquents on 16th Street.


Up until this time, I was no feminist. Rather my thesis had been that I and my generation were reinventing youth, danger, sex, love, blackness and fun. But there had always been just beneath the surface a persistent countermelody, which was becoming a full scale antithesis, what I might also call my mother's line, a deep suspicion that I was reinventing nothing, but rather making a fool of myself in precisely the manner that untold generations of young women before me had done. The synthesis of the two lines--my mother's cautionary tales and my own joie de vivre--merged into our joint vision of black feminism, the ground upon which my mother and I could mutually agree long enough for me to grow up.
Of course, I am saying this in retrospect. We didn't just wake up one morning as a black feminist mother-daughter team. The radical feminist protest at the Miss America Pageant had happened in 1969 and had gotten a lot of attention in the press in New York. Although the press coverage was designed to turn people off, it did just the opposite for me. I remember that being my initial moment of interest because I had always deeply resented the institution of the Miss America Pageant and had already figured out that life was possible for a woman without a bra.


In the fall of 1969, after my adventure in Mexico, and my debriefing in the Sisters of the Good Shepard Home for Girls on 16th Street, I went off to Howard University, a place designed to acquaint you with the shortcomings of black female status if ever there was one. Between the fraternities and the Black Power antics, misogyny ran amuck on a daily basis down there.
In the spring of 1970, I returned to New York and night school at CCNY. In my absense, New York had become a seething hotbed of all kinds of feminist activity. Faith and I were very shortly radicalized within the frenetic and inclusive goings on of the downtown art scene. A further motivation was the troubles Barbara was having as a runaway and a recalcitrant juvenile. Both she and Faith saw only red when they saw each other. She could no longer live at home but had begun to stay with Momma T, our real father's mother, in Queens.
A major organizing principle during these times, despite the reluctance of present historians to admit it, was the overarching unity of everybody on the left--feminist, black, hippies, druggies, socialists and Marxists--in opposition to the War in Vietnam. If you are too young to remember it, then try to imagine what it might have been like if the pro-Nicaraquan movement or the anti-Apartheid Movement in regard to South Africa had been 1000 times bigger, then maybe you'll be close. Remember also that an astonishing array of major leaders, from MLK, Medgar Evers and Malcolm X to both JFK and Robert Kennedy had been taken out, more or less, right in front of our eyes. What with a paranoid and closeted J. Edgar Hoover lurking about and watching us all, no one who had any claims to a position of progressive leadership had any idea when their number might also be up. Baldwin's melancholy refrain during this period was, "Martin, Malcolm, Medgar and me."


My recollection has always been that Faith and I came to feminism at the same time although I now suspect that I was following her lead in the way that an offspring can sometimes follow a parental lead without necessarily being aware of it, especially since I was an inveterate Momma's girl right through my early twenties. Through those early years of the 70s, I frequently accompanied and assisted my mother in her various radical forays into the anti-war, anti-imperialist art movement of the times. With Faith's assistance and support, I founded an organization called Women Students and Artists for Black Art Liberation (WSABAL) as an activist and polemical unit to advocate the kinds of positions in the art world which are now identified with the Guerrilla Girls.
Particular high points were when we participated in raucous art actions at the Museum of Modern Art and the Whitney, when we occupied the offices of Thomas Hoving at the Metropolitan and when I wrote the words for the poster for the Judson Memorial Flag Show, (participants ranged from Carl Andre to Kate Millett) which was ultimately closed by the Attorney General's office, whereupon Faith, as well as Jean Toche and John Hendricks (now Yoko Ono's personal curator) of the Guerrilla Art Action Group were arrested and became the Judson Three. Somewhat reluctantly, and with only half my attention, I sometimes collaborated with Faith when she used texts as she did in her "Political Landscapes" series.


In the meanwhile, I also managed to move slowly but steadily toward completion of a Bachelors in English at CCNY, studying creative writing under such notorious enemies of feminist indoctrination as the late Donald Barthelme, Earl Rovit, John Hawkes, Mark Mirsky and Hugh Seidman. At various events around town, I met Audre Lorde, Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, June Jordan, Nikki Giovanni, Sonia Sanchez, Clayton Riley, who all seemed to me stunningly attractive, articulate and bigger than life. They used to say what I now realize were perfectly outrageous, revolutionary things and they were photogenic. Clayton had been my sister's teacher; I encountered Walker, who seemed shy and retiring, at meetings of black feminists. Even then, to fledgling black women writers, Morrison was a queen. I, myself, wrote and published relatively often, and got the chance once or twice to read my black feminist poetry in the company of such feminist luminaries as Audre.


Among the many thoughtful editors of my writing during this period were Kathie Sarachild at Women's World for whom I wrote my first black feminist essay "Black Women and White Women" in 1971, Robin Morgan who was associated with Rat, and Theresa Schwartz, editor of The New York Element for whom I covered the Panther Convention in D.C. in 1974 at which Huey Newton and Jane Fonda made a notorious pair. My best feminist buddy and mentor then was Pat Mainardi, now professor of Art History at CUNY and Brooklyn College, with whom I spent the summers in a country house in a one horse town called Craftsbury, Vermont. Together she and I, artists Irene Peslikis and Marjorie Kramer started an ill-fated leftwing publication called Women and Art.
I can remember distinctly Shulamith Firestone, the minimal artist Robert Morris, then director of the Museum of Modern Art, Robin Morgan and various New York Panthers visiting our appartment in Harlem. Sometimes I had the sense that we were making history. I certainly thought we were on the verge of a revolution.


In the summer of 1973, Faith and I went to Europe--she to Germany, to Documenta, and I to meet a friend in Madrid where I spent a sybaritic week of dancing all night and sleeping all day. The only touristy thing I did was visit the Prado and that I did every day like clockwork, in order to inhale the dusky magic of their Zurburan paintings. I felt invigorated by the Prado and by Franco's totalitarian Spain. It was so quiet, so safe and so cheap, unlike the world I'd come from. I made up for the lack of political stimulation by having a passionate affair with a military stranger whom I met in a discotheque. Perhaps a foreshadowing of my future husband, he too was from South Carolina.
Nevertheless, as I grew older, I became more and more aware that I was often operating under the shadow of a heavy funk. I was depressed a lot.

Sometimes I look back on the mid seventies and feel as though I spent more time taking cold showers to break through my numbness than anything else. When I finally graduated from CCNY in 1974, it seemed something like a liberation of sorts. I considered myself a veteran feminist by this time. For reasons that now escape me, I was wearing psuedo African apparel, geles, long dresses, sandals, no makeup and so forth. The assumption that was usually made about me was that I was a Muslim, which won me some respect on the street, more than you might get in a mini-skirt. Yet here I was, this very opinionated black feminist, who had real problems with the Black Muslim agenda

.
The general idea of the long dresses was to cover as much of my body as possible and thereby impede the course of the various sexual propositions from strangers which followed me everywhere I went. Apparently, it seemed worth being mistaken for a Muslim woman. Meanwhile, I was also occasionally agoraphobic, bulimic and often had a nightmare of inadvertently strolling the streets in the nude.


By the fall of 1974, new friend Margo Jefferson (then a writer at Newsweek) had helped me get a job as a book review researcher at Newsweek, which furnished me with entry to all sorts of magic New York worlds from the Newport Jazz Festival to the Public Theatre to a variety of literary shenanigans and shindigs. I worked on both the Erica Jong and the Toni Morrison cover stories. I first met Ishmael Reed on the telephone. From my spartan office in the Newsweek building on Madison Avenue, in the illuminating company of fellow researcher Robert Miner, and under the mentorship of Senior Editor Jack Kroll, I was able to call anywhere in the world provided I knew the number. Michael Wolff, a white friend, (we were introduced by a mutual black male friend who was gay) worked in a job of similar prestige at the New York Times, and we made a habit of chainsmoking, drinking scotch and crashing high profile New York literary parties together. I kept hoping that I would one day meet Norman Mailer whose antifeminist rants I secretly found hugely entertaining.


It was around this time, I believe, that I became one of the founders of the National Black Feminst Organization along with Faith and a whole bunch of the usual suspects. I was still urgently passionate about a variety of feminist causes in the abstract. Occasionally, I was asked to write sexy short pieces for Ms. I received all sorts of moral support from Margo and Marie Brown (then editor at Doubleday) who never stinted on expense account lunches. As usual, chum since high school Jill Nelson and I continued our protracted commiserations over the fate of black feminism. In particular, I remember Jill, whom I had known since 7th grade in New Lincoln, as somebody whom I thought really understood me. Neither of us had yet turned out the way our parents had expected. Jill already had the cutest baby I'd ever seen, whom I adored, named Misambu.
Together with the poet Pat Jones, Faith, Margo and I organized the Sojourner Truth Festival of the Arts in 1976 at the Women's Interarts Center, at which Ntozake Shange performed something from "For Colored Girls." This also turned out to be the scene of a major public confrontation between my mother and me, one that resulted in a lot of tears on my part and in my getting my own apartment. About a year later a new group called the Sisterhood began meeting at Alice Walker's house in Brooklyn to talk about what, if anything, black women writers should do or say about feminism. Also, a little later, around 1978, a black feminist study group, which included Susan McHenry and Barbara Omolade, began to meet to discuss black feminist texts and to ponder what our role should be in the movement.


In 1974, I met Ross Wetzsteon at a party at Mark Mirsky's house. If I wanted to write for The Village Voice, Ross told me, he would be glad to introduce me there. He took me to a vivacious and saucy Karen Durbin. As feminists, we immediately bonded. I ended up working with her on my first two Voice essays--one about being a black feminist called "Anger in Isolation: a Search for Sisterhood" in which I talk about the difficulty of black feminist movement in that we black women had neither the will nor the means to risk standing together against black men on any issue. The other article explored my experience of growing up a black American princess in the Harlem of the 50s and 60s. Both essays were struggling to articulate the peculiarly paralysing specialness of being one of the few members of an educated, black middle class elite. We were the talented tenth which Dubois imagined but never really got to see.


It was with the articles in The Voice that I first became a public black feminist in New York. Perhaps my greatest hit had been my back cover profile of Frankie Crocker, then and still the program director and head dj at WBLS-FM. It was my luck that James Brown just happened by the studio the day I was visiting. Of course, in my article, I gave them both black feminist hell, as was my style in those days. So much so that when Ntozake first met me when I interviewed her, she said that she was glad that The Voice had chosen me because I was just the person to put an end to all the ridiculous voyeuristic speculation in the mainstream media regarding her various suicide attempts. Of course, it didn't turn out that way but that's another story. But I can remember being hungry for the kind of fame she had then. Everybody knew, I thought, that the possibility of radical politics was over. But at least you could be famous and then tell them all to fuck themselves.


The writing for The Voice in the mid-seventies got me my editor, Joyce Johnson, who took me with her to Dial Press, which also published most of Baldwin's books. (She had previously worked with Eldridge Cleaver on Soul on Ice, Harold Cruse on The Crisis of the Negro Intellectual and Amiri Baraka on Home.) Margo introduced me to Maxine Groffsky, who would become my literary agent. In 1975, Maxine helped me draft a proposal for a book on black women and Joyce got me a modest advance ($12,500), whereupon I immediately quit my job at Newsweek and once again moved away from home uptown with Mom to a mouse ridden apartment on Greene Street.


In a matter of a few months I had whipped up the essential core of what I thought would be a single chapter on black men. But then Joyce argued that it should be the centerpiece of the book and that I needed only another large section on black women. We then began together the laborious process over a period of two years of editing what was called "Black Macho" and constructing the much more difficult to write section of the book that would be called "The Myth of The Superwoman."


Meanwhile since my money was low, my guardian angel Margo recommended me to her friend Helen Epstein for a job teaching journalism at NYU. At 24, I was suddenly a university professor (actually my rank was lecturer) in a school which had almost no black faculty. It was a common occurence once I moved into the NYU housing in Washington Square Village to be frantically queried by middle aged white women in mink coats whether or not I had any free days for housework. I was always so stunned, I can't recall what I would say. I wasn't used to living around white folks.


It was not unusual for my editorial sessions with Joyce to lresult in tears: mine. Frankly, most of her qualms were over my head as a writer. I had the distinct impression that she might have been perfectly comfortable drawing out our revision process for another year or even two but I put my foot down. I needed a book as soon as possible. Talk about waiting to exhale.


What helped me conceptualize both my book and my life, as much as anything else during this time was a book that Helen was working on about children of concentration camp survivors. Helen focused her first book on the riddle of her relationship to her own parents who had survived the Holocaust. She set out to discover what made such people so inscrutable and difficult, and how it effected their children. In the process, she was also learning a great deal about who she really was; in particular (or so I imagine now) how to wake up from the pain that survivors and their descendants sometimes find so crippling. For the first time, I began to realize, through my discussions with Helen, and through therapy, that I too might be considered the adult child of the walking wounded, and that this fact, as well as my feminism and my blackness, had much to do with who I was.
As Black Macho and The Myth of The Superwoman approached the galley stage, old friend Robin Morgan submitted my text for review to Gloria Steinem and Alice Walker. Needless to say, they liked it a lot (which isn't to say they wouldn't later change their minds) and, through a process of elimination and the ministrations of a new black female editor who would become another best friend (Susan McHenry), I ended up with a double excerpt and a picture of me on the cover of Ms.


Then the whirlwind began over the way I looked and dressed for tv appearances, the way I spoke, what I did and didn't say. Ms. asked me to take my braids out so they wouldn't interfere with the cover lines. The Today Show insisted that I be interviewed with someone who could debate my inflamatory positions, a certain Bonnie Boswell, the daughter of the president of the Urban League, who turned out to be as upper crust as her name.


Afterwards, all I can remember hearing from the publicity people at Ms. and Dial was that I was wearing the wrong colors, the wrong accessories and I didn't smile enough. I am sure I was probably as animated as a piece of wood on camera, so these complaints were merely their best attempts to get through to me. I don't think anybody ever realized how paralysed with fear I usually was in any kind of public appearance. While Dial Press wondered whether I should be described as a black feminist in their press materials, Ms. wondered whether I was up to snuff as a black feminist spokesperson (I was not).
Meanwhile, although I had dedicated the book to her, my relationship with Faith had reached an all time low. Not nearly as famous then as she is now, she didn't feel as though I had given her sufficient credit for my miraculous feminist rebirth.


I had started therapy with an Adlerian the year I graduated from college. We had put all our eggs in one basket. The theory was that professional success was supposed to cure whatever was ailing me psychologically. Au contraire, I was more a mess than ever. I was drinking and smoking heavily, even doing the occasional illicit drug, and hating myself on a daily basis for not being pretty or smart enough. My boyfriends then are now too excruciating to remember.
Then the sniper attacks started rolling in. But what could I expect after not having given any thought at all to allowing Dial to feature the most inflammatory paragraph in the book on the jacket cover. "I am saying. . . there is a profound distrust, if not hatred," my inner child proclaimed in black type against a white background, "between black men and black women that has been nursed along largely by white racism but also by an almost deliberate ignorance on the part of blacks about the sexual politics of their experience in this country."
In Black Macho and The Myth of The Superwoman I had indiscreetly blurted out that sexism and mysogyny were near epidemic in the black community and that black feminism had the cure. I went from obscurity to celebrity to notoriety overnight. Quite suddenly, I was a frequent guest on The Today Show, Phil Donahue and "the six o'clock news" from Newark to Pomona; I was reviewed, attacked and debated in Essence, The Nation, The New York Times, The Washington Post and The Black Scholar, by my own people more than anyone else, and my photograph was everywhere. At 26 I had written the book from hell and my life would change forever.


When I did readings and talks, black folks came at me with book in hand quoting chapter and verse. Meanwhile I was completely at a loss to explain how the book had actually come about. In a way, I still am. I think now that Black Macho and The Myth of the Superwoman was one of those manuscripts that was never supposed to see print, which, indeed, wouldn't see print in today's more competitive and specialized marketplace. The result of an unhappy alliance between a perfectionist unfeminist aesthete and a young, nihilistic, black, feminist, militant half-crazed and sexually frustrated maniac, the text could only hope to crash and burn, which it promptly did after first driving a lot of people crazy, including me. Nevertheless, it documents a crucial stage in my development, and perhaps in yours, in learning the lesson that human perfectibility is not a possibility, that men are people too, and that there aren't any answers in life yet. While I don't think of Black Macho as the Holy Grail, I am not dismissive of the book. Indeed, I believe it to be one of those immortal texts destined to be misread and misunderstood in its own time, but to survive whatever onslaughts are hurled at it. Somewhere in the future it will find its home. Or perhaps it will just help make the future. Just because I gave it birth, doesn't mean I understand it.


Moreover, Black Macho belongs with other celebrated documents of the heady times of the 60s and 70s, most of them not exactly gospel: from Cleaver's Soul on Ice, George Jackson's Notes from Soledad, Baraka's Home and Dutchman, and Angela Davis's Autobiography to Toni Cade Bambara's The Black Woman, Robin Morgan's Sisterhood is Powerful, Ti-Grace Atkinson's Amazon Odyssey and Jane Alpert's "Mother Right."


In the process, I learned a lot of things, many of them impossible for me to verbalize. But one thing I can say is that no matter how you slice it, humanity still has a lot of fixing to do. Although I am hardly dead yet, I am no longer young; nor do I any longer feel as though the burden of change is on my shoulders, or my generation's shoulder's, alone. I am prepared to stand aside, to watch others try and, blissfully, to watch the crowd go by. Nevertheless, I continue to believe that feminism, in all its myriad and contentious incarnations, will always be part of, although not the only, prescription, until somebody comes up with a cure.

THE END


copyright 1997 Michele Wallace

forthcoming in: Feminist Memoir Project ed. Anne Snitow and Rachel Du Plessis (New York: Crown, 1998)


[Back to Michele Wallace front page] [Back to Black Cultural Studies front page]