The Massa of Morehouse

OMG, guys. This just in:

Morehouse College, an historically black university in Atlanta, Georgia-- and the country's only institution of higher learning dedicated to the education of black men-- just elected a WHITE MAN as the valedictorian of the class of 2008.

I. shit. you. not. Read about it here.

Okay, listen, I'm not gonna get into a whole big affirmative action debate, or start talking separate but equal. But, basically, a black college that's been around for 141 years is pretty much founded on the notion that negroes need a special place to learn and grow and become sponsor-able. Black males are particularly vulnerable, for even in his finest interview suit, a negro gentleman will still prompt an old lady to clutch her purse—just, cause, you know, old habits die hard.

Most of my extended family (the ones who think I “talk White”) have attended Historically Black Colleges and Universities (HBCUs for short), and with my degree from Diversity University and my excellent diction, I was the odd blacktress out—the blacktress sheep, if you will (will you??). Growing up, I loved the TV show “A Different World,” so when it came time to go college hunting, I visited Spellman College (Morehouse’s sister school. There is a chapel in the center between the two campuses, so that the black elite can wed quickly and easily—I kid you not) and Clark Atlanta, hoping I’d be able to find sassy friends and a boyfriend on the step team. Alas, the HBCUs acceptance of low SAT scores and the lack of air conditioning in the dorms left little to be desired. Add to that the fact that all those Spellman girls were done up like they were on the catwalk at a hair show, and I knew it wasn’t the place for me.

One can imagine my surprise when, in 2006, I began dating Israeli, vegan, investment banker Schmomer Schmohen,* who told me he’d done his SEMESTER ABROAD at Morehouse! Here I was, a flesh and blood blacktress, and this White boy was like a Martian to me. “What was it like?” I asked over drinks (which we had in Harlem—where he lived) “Did you have friends? Did the negroes take you in?” Clearly, he must have had a good time, for he moved to H-town after graduation and found himself in the bosom of a blacktress. It was interesting to hear about his Morehouse experience, and to see the college through the eyes of an outsider.

Perhaps he paved the way for Joshua Packwood. I wonder if they’ve spoken on the phone.

While I totally support Joshua’s learning and growing and exploration, I kinda find it hard to believe that there was no other black male with a 4.0 GPA and important extracurricular activities in the class of 2008—I mean, Morehouse isn’t that hard (yep, I said it!). As the Persian Excursion said, "If a black school can't even elect a black person as it's valedictorian, it's time to throw in the damn towel."
TRUTH.

I think what I love about the article is the following:

When speaking of his experiences in classes as the only White student, he says,
"Sometimes I kind of wanted to hold back," he acknowledged. "A lot of the professors and students have been like, 'No, don't hold back. We want your perspective here. If we're not going to get it from you, it's going to be very difficult for us to get it somewhere else.'"

Um, is it really? Is Massa Packwood the only person who will bring you white truths? You really have a tough time getting the opinion of a White person as you navigate this world? If that’s the case, I need to head down South, where apparently you can still live in a bio dome of foolishness. I find this especially funny if it did indeed come from members of the faculty, some of who were probably on the plantation with Sojo back in the day.

My other favorite excerpt from the article:
It was not as if this was the first time Packwood experienced life in the minority. He was among the few white students in his class at Grandview Senior High School in Kansas City, Mo. He has mixed-race siblings and his mother was married to a black man. Packwood's experiences growing up have helped him navigate black culture while remaining comfortable with his own complexion.

I LOVE IT. HE HAS KNOWN THE OTHER, so Morehouse made sense to him. Um, I must say, his "nagivation" is something that most of the black people I know do every damn day--and what, Packwood gets a cookie?! It’s also kinda curious that, given his upbringing, he felt the need to turn down Columbia and other Ivies, to “get the black experience," when he already had it at home, it would seem.

Josh is just down with the brown (woman), and wanted to be able to dazzle at dinner parties for the rest of his life.

I just love how bourgie black folks talk about keeping in the community, talk about how we need our “safe spaces” and whatnot, but the BMOBC (big man on black campus) for 2008 is none other than a real-life Zach Morris. I mean, look at this pic:

Note that he is surrounded by Negroes. In its original context, the caption under this image reads, "I always kind of gravitated to the black community," says Packwood who immediately fit in at Morehouse.

Dude is Abercrombie-and-Fitch kinda fine. Um, if I knew all the hot white boys were at the HBCUs, I wouldn’t have been so quick to go liberal arts! He even talks about how he dates black girls in the article—um, how can I get him my phone number?!

Actually, I think I’d probably talk too white for him.

But can you imagine our mixie babies?!!! If you can't imagine, here's another pic:

The caption under this pic reads, "His experience was so positive that Packwood's younger brother, John, will attend the college next year."
I can imagine Josh talking to his not-hot brother now: "Dude, don't even worry about it, you will get so much ass at the black school--the ladies will think it's so cute when you try to dance!"

As you can tell, my feelings here are layered. I do not have any negative feelings toward Joshua Packwood (who is fine as the day is long!), and I support the majority getting outside of their bubble and learning a little sumthin' sumthin'--but it's kinda ironic and frustrating to see that at a school that rests its foundation on lifting up the talented tenth, their most talented is a white dude--that's fucking curious as all get out. And I love the way the media is playing it up, for it proves that White is always right--even when it's in a black world, you know?


*names have been changed to protect the Caucasian.

Flavor of Love: Season 3

8 days left in this Black History Month, guys. We’ve gotta make it count. So far, Barack’s doing his part as a halfie to make sure our 40 acres didn’t go to waste, but other than that, it’s a poor Negro showing this month. I blame this primarily on the premiere of Season 3 of Flavor of Love—aka, Season 3 of “Why Negroes Can’t Have Nice Things—and Why Sojourner Can’t Find a Can-Do Black Husband."

Now, I think you all know my thoughts of Flava Flav—he’s a human cockroach with a gold retainer.

Yeah, I said it.

And, just like a cockroach, he never stops spawning. And he will never become extinct.
Now, like rapper T-Pain, I believe that Flav served his purpose back in his rap days. With Public Enemy, the young Flav gave ugly men hope, and proved that money CAN buy love—a theory which a young Patrick Dempsey tested shortly after the first Public Enemy album was released in 1987. See for yourself:

You never thought Demspey and Flav had a connection, did you?

Flavor of Love: Season 3, debuted on February 11, 2008—smack dab in the middle of the month of negrosity. Now, Flav—or his handlers who sign his checks and make sure the baby-mammas get a cut—must have known people would pick up on this. At the very least, he should have anticipated the blacktress’ wrath.

I’ve been trying to avoid this show since it began, not only due to Flav’s blinding hideousness, but because nothing makes me sadder than unintelligent black women yelling, arguing, and pulling out weaves over nothing. I mean, I didn’t fight for freedom so these chicks could act a damn fool!

While eating China Place at Litsa’s last night, we had no choice by to stare at the giant image of Flav on her flat screen. Luckily, it was episode 1, where the sluts get their nicknames for the duration of the show.

Sidebar: Historically in African cultures, babies are named by a powerful figure in the community or family shortly after birth. The name is often meaningful, determined not before the child’s birth, but after. It involves a communication with a higher power, where the child’s destiny and identity are determined. The name is meant to act, in a way, as a prophecy.

On Flavor of Love and I Love New York, a slut appears in a mansion—primarily for free food, drink, and the chance to go from appearing in pornography on public access television to pay-cable—and is given a name that is easy to remember, touches on some trivial aspect of his/her/hir’s personality, and is often misspelled.

As the woman stood in line and waited to be named, Flav announced that this season he would do something different: The women would name themselves!!!
Who said pimps up, hos down? Not this time around! The women approached flav one by one, and explained why they should be named. One girl called herself “Bunz”—yes, with a ‘z’—because of her large posterior. Two identical twins (in bad need of pilates and orthodontia, if you really want to know) said they were “Sugar” and “Spice,” because that’s all a man could need.

As trite as this was, Flav was not satisfied with these monikers. In this instance, he decided to name them himself, giving them titles that were meaningful to him.
“My favorite book when I was little was Cat in the Hat,” he explained to the scary-looking ladies. “And my favorite characters were those little bad monsters—Thing 1 and Thing 2. So I’m call y’all Thing 1 and Thing 2.”

I kid you not.






We’ve come a long way, Negroes!!!

The women laughed, which is all one could really do in such a situation. Unless you’re me, and you stare at the TV with your mouth open and a lone tear in your eye.

As everyone gets acclimated and the women take their turns trying to woo flav, one woman shows herself as the next New York—her name is SHY, precisely because she is not shy at all. Two at a time bond with Flav, and the rest of the women are left to drink and intimidate each other, and Shy wastes no time.

One large white woman, nicknamed Peeches (yes, PEEches), is immediately attacked. Shy asks her why she’s here, and Peeches says she “wants to be his queen.” (um, really? Ew.)
Shy then gets louder and louder, screaming, “Are you ready to do what you gotta do? Do you want 10 babies? ARE YOU READY TO HAVE HIS 10 BABIES?!” She then begins pointing to her nether regions as she says each syllable, just in case Peeches doesn’t know where babies come from.

She's not shy at all. And she wants to be the new New York.

Once she makes herself clear, she begins to say, “See, me, 24-healthy, fit”—she flexes her bicep at this moment—“I’m all ready. Are YOU ready?!”

Okay, now, the last thing anyone should be trying to do is procreate with Flav. He is clearly genetically inferior, from his oral hygiene to his stature to his balding (though he tries to wear real jacked up cornrows). There is no reason why having his babies would be a good idea—we’re trying to LIFT UP the black race!! Listen, I’m only having kids if I know they’ll be in The Talented Tenth. I’m not popping out babies just keep some steady income. I mean, how do you think I’ve lived so long since the abolition of slavery? Cause I ain’t givin’ it away!!!

These women should also keep in mind that Flav already has about 8 children (like I said, cockroaches reproduce rapidly), and, like, 7 baby-mammas. And this is the THIRD SEASON of the show—his track record ain’t so great.

I honestly don’t get why these women don’t have higher aspirations than mating with an unattractive man. I mean, the only one who is showing her true colors is the white girl—who wanted to be called “Vanilla,” but instead he calls her ICE. Ice admits that she’s a budding radio personality, and is most likely on the show to earn some sort of “Street Cred.”

It’s a sad world when the only person clever enough on Flavor of Love is the white girl.

Okay, readers, I could go on, but I would probably end up crying, or nauseous.

Happy February 21st!!!!!!!!!