Get Down with the Get Down

That’s what I want to tell Black people. All that shucking and jiving won’t change the state we’re in, and that seems to be the only thing the majority of Black folks are interested in.

Nah, you see Nandi been around this sphere of influence for a while. There was a time when I believed that my people were truly just victims of circumstance. That the “white”* man was doing everything in his power to keep that foot on their neck—and that they just couldn’t break free, but if they did, shit would be different.

But it ain’t all that. Well, it is, but not all. You see, there are those of my people who like that foot penetrating their windpipe. Matter of fact, they twist and turn their bodies to accommodate it, even hollering out “Sir, I’m an Army officer,” as their head gets kicked the fuck in and their 7-year-old daughter stands nearby, watching in horror.

I wonder if that child thinks these thoughts at night: “Damn, mama got her ass kicked, and she didn’t even try to defend herself,” “How can mama protect me, if she can’t protect herself?”

While I hope that ain’t the case, the mother of this child could use some serious talking to. She needs to know that you don’t believe for a second that your connection to your massa is going to save you from an ass-whipping from massa’s overseer. It ain’t like you the prized stud on the farm. In his eyes, you still a nigga.

Who was that? Trick Daddy, I believe? “You can have a college degree—still a nigga.” I think it went something like that. So, I say we, those of us with the testicular fortitude, need to show them caucazoids what it’s like when we “get down with the get down,” James-Brown style.

“These people ain’t bedda than me. No way, they’re bedda than me. I could teach them, but I’d have to charge.” (Sang to the rhythm of that awful song, Milkshake, by Kelis.)

They ain’t ready for this.

Stay strapped, Black people. Stay ready.