Blind to the Ways of Mankind

“A child is born with no state of mind . . . blind to the ways of mankind.” — Grandmaster Flash

I don’t agree that a child is born with no state of mind, because babies have shown from hour one their ability to absorb, and in some ways comprehend, the world around them. I do, however, understand the underlying thought placed on that particular lyric and agree there’s a high probability we come into this world blind to the ways of mankind and that our physical (earthly) state of mind is an acquired process that can be manipulated and underdeveloped by our interactions with mankind, in the process destroying or suppressing our higher mental (spirit) state of mind. Of course, that’s my theory.

But one thing I do know from years of observation following my diapered, bottle-fed childhood is that “in order to stay alive—it’s called survival,” we, like all thinking peoples, animals and plants of the world, must know when to engage our self-preservation switch. And that’s what bothers me about black people. We’re too much like Grandmaster Flash’s lyrics. We’re the child being born with no state of mind, blind to the ways of mankind—or maybe we’re born with a state of mind but lose it shortly thereafter when placed in the bosom of those who as adults display no state of mind.

Either way, we’re not living up to the requirements needed to sustain us in a way that doesn’t subjugate future generations. Too many of us are complacent in pretending to know what it takes to survive, to know what it takes to reach our highest ground (So what Grandmaster Flash inspired this post—Stevie brought it home).

Black people more favor the quote from Amos Wilson, “Do whatever you want to me.” We posit that “whites” are like the children of the earth that have been given free reign making the world their playground—and that may well be true—but if we look at this from a another perspective, we have to admit that we’re the ones who act childlike. Worse, we act more like the abused child who seeks to constantly impress his abuser in hopes that the abuse will be lessened. Somewhere along the line, it isn’t uncommon for the abused child to protect and even develop an unnatural sense of love for the abuser.

I remember well a conversation between my mother and me a few years ago on the subject of her abusive husband. This man had a serious demon about him. For every bit of control he didn’t have in the real world, he’d come home and take it out on her. In the last battle to the death, he stomped her in the head with cowboy boots and basically left her for dead. That was mankind in action—the one Grandmaster Flash states a child is blind to. In this case, so was my mother.

A few years later, the bastard died a most painful death and all I could think to do at the too-grown age of 10 was walk up to the casket to make sure it was his ass in it and that he wouldn’t be coming back to hurt my mother or terrorize me and my siblings ever again.

Back to the conversation with my mother. That day she was feeling a bit down and she made mention that “he was the only one who ever understood me.” It took me a moment to do two things: 1) regain my composure and 2) hold my tongue on asking her if she was out of her gotdamn mind.

What it was about her that only he could understand, I was never sure. Did he understand that she needed or desired to have her ass beat every time he came home drunk? Did he understand that the reason I pissed my pants and hid behind the recliner was because of him and his brutality? I mean, what the hell was he supposedly so understanding about?

It’s this being blind about and accepting of the world around us that is getting black people kicked in the head by folks with cowboy boots. They kick and kick and we pretend the shit ain’t happening and that it doesn’t hurt. What’s amazing is it doesn’t matter if we come away with a concussion or even wake up dead, we still keep laying our damn heads on the ground waiting for the next one to come along and kick us again.

If ever the “whites” were the children of the earth, the roles have now been reversed. It is us who play as much as possible. It is us who act like the world is brand new. It is us who seek to escape this life through religion, drugs, sex, lies, treachery (usually instigated upon each other). It is us who soon forget how horribly we were treated at yesterday’s play date. It is us who still wish to suckle at the teats of our mothers, never venturing too far from the porch for fear the big bad world might be waiting on us to grow the f*** up.

We, the children that we are, are perpetually locked in our childlike state. Fearful of coming out. More fearful of the responsibility that awaits us should we come out. We’ve taken on a sense of blindness because it keeps us safe. Keeps us alive. We don’t give a damn about the next generation because as children that thought doesn’t enter our consciousness. We can play forever and that’s just fine with us.

Round and round goes the merry-go-round, and upon it’s gilded, mystical horses we ride, hoping, wishing, praying that the operator never stops the show, because we’re not ready to get off. To get off means to go home. Back to expectations. Back to survival. And that’s what scares the hell out of us so thoroughly and intrinsically that we turn to church, god, jesus, allah, ife and any other makeshift “us” that we can lay our responsibilities upon.

We want to be children. We don’t want to be the adult who has to obtain food, water, shelter, security—and most of all, nail down a master plan. The only master plan we want to hear about is Eric B. and Rakim’s. We’d much rather teach somebody to doogie than teach someone to build an economy—or better yet, participate in building one. Too much work. Too tiring.

We’d much rather walk around spouting phrases of emptiness: “each one, reach one,” “down for the cause,” “walking the walk,” “black power” and on and on . . . the rhetoric never gets old; the work never gets done.

As long as we continue to think and act that way, not only will our children come into the world with no state of mind, but they’ll grow into adults with none. And like ancestors past, these childlike adults will be stomped into oblivion by pairs of cowboy boots caked with the blood of generations who were under the belief that only the stomper understood them. And maybe the stomper did, which is why he stomped them into oblivion in the first place.