RUDIMENTS, pt. 745
('the white man headaches me
gravely' - slavery, pt. Two)
Sometimes like a noxious weed,
there are things that settle in
and take root, spread and grow
wild. People hate burdock,
though, even as a weed, if
approached properly, burdock
can be a valued, medicinal
plant. The 'bible-ists' and the
thumpers of the world will
gather to praise and sing in
unison the goodness of their
Lord - all that while that
goodness stares the in the
face and they call it a weed.
There's not a difference
between junk and non-junk,
until that difference is made.
That's what Eden was.
-
You'd never know it now, but
over here, just a few miles
from where I am as I write this,
was once one of the the largest
and busiest arrival points for
the slave trade along the east -
rivaling Savannah, rivaling
the east-coast ports and inland
waterway trans-posts. The slave
market and auction stands along
the face of the Raritan Bay at
Perth Amboy. Slaves were
brought in, inspected, quartered,
(I don't mean cut-up as a butcher
would do, I mean, rather, given
'accomodations' for the term).
The arriving candidates, all ages
and both sexes, were inspected :
musculature, posture, teeth,
overall health and strength.
["Among female slaves,
Washington had a taste for the
'fat and lusty.' Among males,
he looked for 'straight-limbed'
specimens 'with good teeth and
good countenances.' While
President, he placed a newspaper
advertisement seeking the return
of a runaway 'mulatto girl, much
freckled,' whose flight caught him
so much by surprise that although
he knew she had taken off with
several changes of clothes, he
could not recall exactly which
ones. Convinced that she had been
lured away by an unscrupulous
Frenchman, he was still trying
to get her back until almost the
end of his life, in 1799, by which
time she was living in Portsmouth,
NH, as a free woman, married,
with children"]. As I walk along here
now, oddly enough, unlike other
places of this nature, here in Perth
Amboy this site is dead. I detect no
afterglow, no ghosted marvels
emitting clues, no remnants of
that day. Perth Amboy, alas, has
no atmospherics at all. There is
a meager sign, referencing the
location, in that sidereal and
obscurantist way that the
municipalities do when they
really want you to know nothing.
of the site they're 'showing.'
The death boat has already been
emptied here.
now, oddly enough, unlike other
places of this nature, here in Perth
Amboy this site is dead. I detect no
afterglow, no ghosted marvels
emitting clues, no remnants of
that day. Perth Amboy, alas, has
no atmospherics at all. There is
a meager sign, referencing the
location, in that sidereal and
obscurantist way that the
municipalities do when they
really want you to know nothing.
of the site they're 'showing.'
The death boat has already been
emptied here.
-
As you can see, heads never
were just heads, nor tails tails.
I myself harbored a lot of oddball
animosity no matter. I'd see these
torrid, almost angry, black guys on
the street, hawking 'Muhammed
Speaks' - their black Muslim
newspaper of Elijah Muhammed.
There was an entire story there
too, with sects and infractions, and
the killing of Malcolm X. All
a sort of insider, back, politics.
Street stuff you or I would never
know about, or have a key to.
It was difficult for me to place
what was going on - the mid-60's
were waning, there was racial
trouble everywhere, riots and
anger were the flavor of the day,
the Vietnam protraction was raging,
with all that BS taking center stage,
along with draft dodgers, those fleeing,
and the dead returning; the maimed
and the injured for life. Who or what
was worse? Was that the same
struggle? Did these blacks and
these whites share anything? I
I never knew. Was 'Slavery' itself
something to be talked about? Ghetto
blacks, I knew, had it totally miserable,
yes, but I could never source their
misery. Was it their own doing?
Was any of the violence and the
anger justified? Who knew? Had
white people been mis-represented to
them? Was there even any common
ground? I noticed they almost hesitated
or backed off from their newspaper
sales as I'd approach. I think it was
so stilted and targeted that it wasn't
to be sold to whites. I also always
wanted to just tell them to try and
sell to whites, the extortion-factor of
fear of saying NO would probably
get them sales. It was that kind of
climate. I also later found that it
was done with even more pressure,
in Newark, right across the river and
bay, with a more vile and an angry
touch - right along Broad and
Market Streets. Everyone got
approached. And in Philadelphia,
at the street crossings selected,
they went light to light, to cars, but
there, they also plied one-dollar
cold waters, and five-dollar small
pecan pies. A yes, different twist,
on the same dance. That was
by the old Divine Lorraine Hotel.
- Those issues were never faced unless
you were amid them. Were these guys
with their newspaper and assemblies,
remnants of the old slave culture
come back to fight? Or were they a
different breed of black altogether?
I had a friend, a girl I knew then, who
lived in the east 90's, of NYC. In the
period of time I'm speaking of, that
was no man's land, and very much a
no-man's land for white, young women.
People used to tell her she was crazy
for living there, for even walking out her
door, let alone re-arriving there to get
home late at night and in the dark.
None of it ever fazed here. Granted, she
was tough and had an edge, but still,
she was a lone female, fighting to
stay in squalor. Go there today, you
wouldn't think about it twice, even
in your Sunday best.
-
As you can see, heads never
were just heads, nor tails tails.
I myself harbored a lot of oddball
animosity no matter. I'd see these
torrid, almost angry, black guys on
the street, hawking 'Muhammed
Speaks' - their black Muslim
newspaper of Elijah Muhammed.
There was an entire story there
too, with sects and infractions, and
the killing of Malcolm X. All
a sort of insider, back, politics.
Street stuff you or I would never
know about, or have a key to.
It was difficult for me to place
what was going on - the mid-60's
were waning, there was racial
trouble everywhere, riots and
anger were the flavor of the day,
the Vietnam protraction was raging,
with all that BS taking center stage,
along with draft dodgers, those fleeing,
and the dead returning; the maimed
and the injured for life. Who or what
was worse? Was that the same
struggle? Did these blacks and
these whites share anything? I
I never knew. Was 'Slavery' itself
something to be talked about? Ghetto
blacks, I knew, had it totally miserable,
yes, but I could never source their
misery. Was it their own doing?
Was any of the violence and the
anger justified? Who knew? Had
white people been mis-represented to
them? Was there even any common
ground? I noticed they almost hesitated
or backed off from their newspaper
sales as I'd approach. I think it was
so stilted and targeted that it wasn't
to be sold to whites. I also always
wanted to just tell them to try and
sell to whites, the extortion-factor of
fear of saying NO would probably
get them sales. It was that kind of
climate. I also later found that it
was done with even more pressure,
in Newark, right across the river and
bay, with a more vile and an angry
touch - right along Broad and
Market Streets. Everyone got
approached. And in Philadelphia,
at the street crossings selected,
they went light to light, to cars, but
there, they also plied one-dollar
cold waters, and five-dollar small
pecan pies. A yes, different twist,
on the same dance. That was
by the old Divine Lorraine Hotel.
- Those issues were never faced unless
you were amid them. Were these guys
with their newspaper and assemblies,
remnants of the old slave culture
come back to fight? Or were they a
different breed of black altogether?
I had a friend, a girl I knew then, who
lived in the east 90's, of NYC. In the
period of time I'm speaking of, that
was no man's land, and very much a
no-man's land for white, young women.
People used to tell her she was crazy
for living there, for even walking out her
door, let alone re-arriving there to get
home late at night and in the dark.
None of it ever fazed here. Granted, she
was tough and had an edge, but still,
she was a lone female, fighting to
stay in squalor. Go there today, you
wouldn't think about it twice, even
in your Sunday best.
-
When I was 12, things I didn't
know about, really, included
slavery and much of America's
past - except for what could be
gleaned from those library and
sixth-grade level bio-books
about such personages as Edison,
Henry Ford, G. Washington, Ben
Franklin, Clara Barton, etc. The
Founding Fathers, of course, too.
Most all of it was veiled propaganda,
the sorts of things you get today
in ads, on cereal boxes, and most
anything broadcast or picked up
electronically. The drivel is the
same though the means of the
work on your brain - without
you knowing it - is even more
invidious. So be it and I don't
care. (There are two things now
that I'm very proud of as personal
achievements : I haven't watched,
in any way, shape, or form, a
television for 6 years now, and
I've not eaten meat nor partaken
of the organized corporate
slaughter of my fellow beings
flayed on a fired-pot of any sort).
That insulates and isolates me
from most of the permissive,
sick, barbaric, treacle and bile
that fills most people's brains.
Another good. I am slave to
nothing but that, and my own
personal habits; which do get
reviewed and judged, and, yes,
sometimes altered, by me
often enough as I troll my
own way along and through
the pale thunderlands of others.
I am as black as can be by
those effects; for the white
man still headaches me gravely.
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