American Multiculturalism & You

     I may have to stop listening to NPR. One Sunday they had a guest, I didn’t catch his name—Don something—who was asked if he believed America was a multicultural society. This clod replied in all seriousness, “No, I do not. “Imagine. he actually said that. The most frightening thing about this is that he probably believes that crock of shit. Since the Trump campaign kicked off in 015 there has been a terrifying rise in right-wing bigotry and fascism in this country’s discourse.

          Let me explain something, in as simple and with as cordial language as I am able: YOURE FUCKING NUTS.

          Point two: Fuck you. We’re not going back.

          You want to live in the 19^th Century under Biblical conditions, without electricity or public toilets, build a time machine. The rest of us are not going to tolerate a nation of stupidity and intolerance. Point of fact: white people were not here first. That honor goes to the Native Americans, to the native peoples of the Bahamas where Columbus landed. The Spanish began colonizing the Americas in the 15^th Century. In fact the first permanent Spanish city in the Western hemisphere, was established in Santo Domingo in the present-day Dominican Republic in 1496. Florida was claimed as a Spanish colony by Juan Ponce de Leon in 1513; Hernando de Soto discovered the Mississippi in 1541.

           Put into perspective, the first English settlement in North America, Jamestown, was not established until 1607. Latinos were here and had a healthy population and culture well before the Great Land Grab of 1846—oops, I mean the Mexican War, which was preceded by the original American land grab in the so-called Texas War of Independence in 1836. California, New Mexico, Arizona were wrongly seized as part of the war’s aims, basically taken under the terms of 1848’s Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, and under the policy of Manifest Destiny. Or, the Law of Conquest. Does no one realize how much this bears shades of Nazism?

          And to all those who complain about the rights justly claimed by African Americans, which rights are guaranteed by original Constitutional law and subsequent amendments, to all you sickies who shouted, “Kill that nigger!” at Trump rallies in 2016…just remember, YOU brought them over here.

          You kidnapped them from their African homes, drowned them in the sea and seeded them all across the Caribbean and the Southern Atlantic coast of America. Did you seriously think they would give up their culture in order to adopt that of their oppressors? Recall this, you white people did not HAVE A CULTURE of your own when you arrived on these shores. 

        So to all you deniers I say America is a polyglot of cultural influences, Native American, African, Latino, Asian, Germanic& French and every other immigrant soul that has blessed our soil. As much as I’d love to tell you what you can do with yourselves, today I’ll settle for this. If you deny that America is a multicultural nation, then I’m afraid you’re an imbecile, and not a very well-educated one at that. You’re probably the same sort of boob who believes the Bible is true history and the Earth is only 6,000 years old or less. Literally descended from apes? Yeah, I can believe that, but I wouldn’t want to insult our primate cousins.

Addendum 'Sunday Bloody Sunday"

Did I say Yoko Ono sounded serene in my last post? I may have exaggerated.

It's true Yoko did a splendid job on 'Angela' & 'Born in a Prison'.  However, when you set the needle on the aforementioned 'Sunday Bloody Sunday' as well as the LP's closing track, 'We're All Water', she's back to her old screeching tricks. And this goes on for over seven frikkin' minutes. Sorry.

'Sunday Bloody Sunday'

There are actually two versions of this song that I know, the first of course being John Lennon's from his Sometime in New York City album from 1973. I may have been the only person at the time who loved that LP, possibly because I was a nine-year-old kid who was totally divorced from the events under protest on that album.

Here's the thing with John Lennon: you don't want to piss him off, 'cause he will write a song about you. Taylor Swift? pfft! John is the archetype, the man who will crucify you in song. Just listen to "Gimme Some Truth". Unfortunately "Sunday Bloody Sunday" got lost in the melange that was this album. That was too bad 'cause it was the best song, hard, biting with the full power of the Plastic Ono Band at his back and a merciless solo bridging the choruses.

Curiously this was also the first LP where Yoko sounded fabulous. Where John was angry, Yoko was lyrical, more serene, which made her political sentiments more effective. One could say the student had exceeded the master.

Count ahead ten years. I barely knew U2; most of us didn't in 1983. What'd they have on MTV back then, like three videos? With the concert at Red Rock, Colorado, they became flesh, four passionate young men ready to storm the world. I believe that was the point of the concert, to make the world aware of them. It worked for me, they never left my sight after that. Especially after they performed "Sunday Bloody Sunday", their own version.

That was the first time i fell in love with that song, with Bono stomping the beat, waving that white flag while the Edge cranked out the riff. reminding us that we need to stop this, just stop it:

"How long, how long must we sing this song?
"Tonight, we can be as one, tonight..."

And just when you thought the song was over, they bring it back full force for one last refrain.

"Sunday Bloody Sunday' never gets old, and maybe that's the problem. This whole generation of vipers, all those old geezers are leading us into new wars, new acts of terrorism. They keep promoting the wrong ideas, the same outdated group-thinking that if you bomb the blazes out of people, the enemy is going to surrender. Either that or you'll pound the people around them into annihilation. Look at the Middle East; all that's accomplished is making another generation that's going to grow up hating us, with good reason.

What we need is what we haven't got, a President who's willing to stand up, who has the moral courage to tell us, "Stop it stop it just #@*&^%$# stop it! We're not Neanderthals, We don't need to do this anymore. We're not going to accomplish anything with a military solution. We're not going to win if we keep killing each other."

I am not your associate

associate

a person with subordinate membership in a society, institution, or commercial enterprise

Source: https://www.vocabulary.com/dictionary/associate

     I’m seeing this everywhere now, hearing it every single day over the ‘Interstore Audio monopolized Network’ broadcasting in every supermarket that I frequent. It started with Walmart of course, this referring to their grocery workers as ’associates.’     

     What the hell is that supposed to mean anyway, ‘associates’? That's the shit term Walmart uses to identify us.That is the word business people used to refer to  colleagues they know but who are not their friends. ‘Hello, this is Oswald, my associate. He will be breaking your kneecaps today’. 

     Words have power. There are many meanings attached to this word, but I think the one I've pasted at the top there best defines how our employers see us lowly minions today. By inference that implies we are really not part of the company; that we work here but we’re not part of the family, is that so?    

     That really burns me to hear that, every day. ‘Our meat associates would be proud to serve you’. Yes, except they’re not really one of us. What this says is that we're not as valuable to the Company as the CEOs sitting in their head offices. That our work doesn't matter when the reverse is true. Without us doing the grunt work, the Company would collapse into a disorderly mass. 

     I’m going to admit something right here; I’ve spent the last 19 years working in a supermarket, stocking the shelves and facing them to make them presentable in the morning so, when a customer comes into the store, it looks like a place where they might want to shop again. 

     I’m not doing this because the company appreciates it, oh no. Truth is as far as the company is concerned, whatever we do, however hard we work, it will never be enough. They will always want more. Which is fine; I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for the most selfish of reasons. Whatever I do on my job, it’s going to be something I’m proud to have my name on. Because I’ll tell you what, whenever they lay me off, and that’s a given, the only thing I’ll take away from that job will be the reputation I’ve built over the last 19 years.         

     I’ll tell you something else. I am not a goddamn ‘associate’. I will never be an associate. I’ve worked my ass off at my job. I’ve been un-fuck-up-isizing my workplace since the day I walked in the door. I’m a laborer, a night shift worker. I have been a member of my company’s so-called family for 19 years and I categorically refuse to be patronized or belittled in that manner. 

     And you can bet your corporate out-of-touch ass that I will see that put in writing when the next contract comes up. I will see it written in stone that we are not simply ‘associates’ of the company. 

Novel excerpt: My Name is Scout

Novel Excerpt:
MY NAME IS SCOUT

     Context: The cult known as the Children of Sydelle have kidnapped the mother of Youssou Hadebe. To effect her rescue, Magistrate Jomoro al-Amain has called in an elite fighting force, the Rangers. Youssou meanwhile has persuaded Jomoro to release Jamai Dlamini from an unjust prison sentence for the duration of the operation. She has come to a point where she has won the Rangers’ respect, enough to have earned a nickname…
     Narrated by Youssou:

     The Rangers seemed to have a penchant for enclosed spaces. We congregated in the command tent, what Cobalt’s men referred to as the Eagle’s Den, no doubt because of the eagle-head on the flagpole hoisted behind us. Cobalt stood at the head of a map table which took up most of the available space of a rather sizeable tent. As before the participants in this particular briefing we all wedged ourselves around the table.
     “Now that we have our guide we can get started,” Cobalt began. With his swivel stick he tapped at different grid sections that divided the relief map. “We’re going to divide into four squads of 24 men each. You will each be assigned a grid with sniffer drones.
     “These drones will be enabled to spit additional mini-drones--gnats, essentially--which will explore each abandoned facility. No doubt the enemy will mistake these minis for fleas or some other pest. These will be exploratory missions. Do not attack unless you have a reasonable chance of success. Our objective is to locate the enemy, assess and report back.
     “Bear in mind this is a process of elimination. There are 1,500 monasteries and churches spread over a thousand kilometers in Gondar and the Simien Mountains. Some of these churches are still active, some have been abandoned, and one of them might be the one where our enemy is squatting. We’re going to sort the good ones from the bad, starting with what we assume are abandoned sites.
     “It is probable we may encounter bands of shiftas on our patrols. Should you do so, douse them with anesthetic gas. We’ll see whether Intel Section can squeeze any actionable intelligence out of them. Corpsman will distribute filter masks and remote-control leash pods for each sniffer.
     “One more thing. There was an innocent woman taken by these devils. Our primary objective is her safe recovery. Now then, any questions?”
     Beside me at the far end of the table, Jamai’s hand hesitantly went up. “Why do they call him ‘Corpsman’? Doesn’t he have a name?”
     “Umm, that is my name,” he replied in a soft almost effeminate voice.
     “That’s what they call you?” Jamai asked.
     The man offered a thin shrug. “Exactly. They always call ‘hai, Corpsman’. It suits me, so it’s kind of stuck.”
     “Huh. It’s a lucky thing I won’t be here long enough for you gentleman to slap a designation on me!” As she was saying this, Cobalt paused in his habitual rapping of his swivel stick on his thigh. He tried to shuffle to one side as his eyes rolled.
     I unfortunately was not as quick. She suddenly found herself in a sea of abashed faces. “Don’t tell me it’s the same thing Sydelle’s idiots call me,” she groaned.
     “There was a vote,” Cobalt responded. “It was precisely because the enemy gave you that label that it was a non-starter. Given the choice between ‘Pythoness’ and ‘Scout’, the majority voted for the latter.”
     It was a quick briefing. Cobalt suggested we all get a good night’s rest; tomorrow would be a good day for hunting. Once in our tent, Jamai commented, “It’s a good thing they hadn’t decided to give you a name, rafiki…oh no. What is it?”
     “’Angry Scowl’,” I said and rolled over.

Sample, 'Points of Reference'

“Colonel, what happened to the Naga Sentry?”       

He wouldn’t, or couldn’t look at me. He kept his eyes on the double vault of airlock doors ahead of us. There were guys in spacesuits a lot like my skinsuit, but with helmets, preparing a spacepod just for me.    

“Your parents were good people. All of the people on that ship were good people. I couldn’t stand the sight of that thing. I had orders to bring it in to port. I was commanding a brig carrying it in our cargo hold. When we passed behind the star to make  a standard orbital approach, I flushed it into Alexis’ photosphere.”             

I nodded. “Good.”       

“You’ve never talked about the seven months you spent as a Loner on that ship.”       “

Why would I want to?”          

I shut my eyes tight. Just like that a flash of memory returned, as real as when it happened. My father standing over my mother’s body, staring at his hands. His running screaming into the calesthetics ring between sleep pods until another crazy passenger shivved him.        

Me, seven years old, wheeling my parents’ bodies on their own sleep cot to the science lab freezer where we stored cellular samples for seeding on A-Seven. I secured them on their mat, spooning them together in death as they’d been in life, before this fucking voyage began. Then I shut the freezer door.      

“It’s ready,” the Colonel grunted. “How about you?”               

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

[a very short chapter for a story using my DeviantArt character Lianna]

Enjoy.

www.mike3839.deviantart.com

This Should Come as a Surprise to No One: The Female Doctor

Remember when Lenny Henry became the Doctor? He was a black man, a comedienne who for one glorious, brief, hilarious sketch became the universe’s most famous Time Lord. Nobody whined about that. Well, I suppose it might have had a little to do with the fact that he wasn’t really the Doctor. It wasn’t CANON!!! The BBC gave Colin Baker the year off, and Lenny Henry stepped up. But, he could have been, and I would have been happy with it.

             I would love to have seen him do more as the Doctor. Alas, I knew this skit only as an extra included on the Comic Relief VHS, “The Curse of Fatal Death”, which to be honest was the best Doctor Who program we were given in 20 years. Sure it was; it was written by Steven Moffat, wasn’t it? That was his first foray into the world of Who, and what a debut.

            So, sorry, Thick-Of-Skull here, not getting why y’all getting so uppity because the new Doctor is (gasp) a--A WOMAN! AAAAUUUGHHH!

            Yeh. Calm down and let ‘em regenerate.

13th Doctor Jodie Whittaker

            Why are you so surprised at this? You didn’t care when the General (Ken Bones) , the old British white guy, regenerated into T'nia Miller—a BLACK, BRITISH woman. EEEKKK! And oh man, was she relieved to be a woman again! You got down with that, but you object to the Doctor we know changing gender?

            This is not a PC plot, so you can yank that stick out from up your proper white male ass. This is not a surprise. They’ve been hinting at it for 41 years, ever since the newborn Eldrad made that throw-away line in “The Hand of Fear”: “Oh come, Doctor, you sound like Professor Watson. As a Time Lord you should be well acquainted with the process of regeneration.”

            Yeh, that was waaaay back in Tom Baker’s era. And every single time since then when it was announced that a new actor would be taking the role, the fans started clamoring for a woman Doctor. I’m excited for this. I can’t wait for 13 to get snarky with Davros, or Missy, or the Cybermen. You know what, screw all you white dudes and you PC paranoia. I’m setting my gear up for Season 11.

http://www.doctorwhonews.net/2017/07/bbc-responds-to-complaints-about-casting.html

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GPbiGb_JVLI

"Adorable moment young girl reacts to new Doctor Who announcment"

Taking Down the Cameras (short fiction)

This was the day I’d always dreamed of, since that first afternoon I saw those spycams on their spindly rods posing over our traffic signals. Only a few appeared at first but as time moved on, they began to multiply like fleas at every traffic stop. I fumed every day, even sped past those electronic signposts screaming “Speed limit exceeded”, just to be contrary. Maybe it was cowardice not acting on our frustrations sooner, but the generations pass, new voices arise with the balls of the young, and I was proud to be invited to stand with my grandson as we tossed a tow cable around the spycam’s neck and yanked hard.

[New short short story. Enjoy. ]

Nooses? Not on my watch, sonny

Grow up, you idiots.

https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/05/us/nooses-hate-crimes-philadelphia-mint.html?mcubz=0

Yep, the noose is back. Across the Southern U.S. these things have been cropping up too frequently, symbolic of the bigotry that's been simmering to the surface since last November's election. One incident that made national headlines came towards the end of June, when a white male coin maker carried a noose across the factory floor at the U.S. Mint in Philadelphia to the workstation of a fellow African-American coworker.

The veneer of civilization is thin in the best of times; all it takes is a little stress to bring the Neanderthal roaring back. That's not acceptable.

No, actually, this is obscene. You're telling me in the 21st Century, white males feel privileged enough that this sort of intimidation is going to be allowed? How about NO. Fuck NO. Keep your nooses in the gutter with you, where they belong. This is not anything that I'll tolerate.

PDF Midnight Interruption

Short excerpt from 'Sanity's Edge', a novel in progress

     I slipped off the ship after dark, once I could sense that everyone in the village was asleep. The forest was new but Mama had found me a new friend. We stared at each other under the shade of a mango tree as the Moon climbed into the sky. Its tongue flicked the air in the three-meter space that divided us. 

     This wasn’t one of the gen-altered snakes I was accustomed to from my home. This bugger was all wild, possibly the first of its kind that I’d seen since childhood, possibly the first I’d ever seen in my life. Sweet Ngai, was she massive! Her trunk was thicker around than my thighs.

I sensed her full belly, so I had no worries on that score. Her scales had a fresh gloss, as though she had just completed shedding not too long ago. I suppose she wouldn’t object to a warm body to enfold. I closed the distance between us and stepped into her embrace.

     I knew this would be a problem as soon as a hundred kilos seemed on my hips, pressing me down. My knees buckled at first, but I kept to my feet as a second curl of muscle wound behind my legs, brushing the skin of my thighs before plopping atop the first coil, in the process pushing up my breasts.

     Both were solid rippling muscle. A thrill shuddered through my chest, and perhaps a little excitement. I’d never given myself to such a beast before. A third coil slipped past my shoulders, pressing my breasts into flattened ovals between them. Sweat trickled over them and down the middle of my back; but that was probably just the heat of this place. For now, I was content. As I held out my hand, the last meter of its tail settled in my palm, circling twice before cinching tight. With my eyes shut, we dropped as one bundled mass into the soft grass.

     Of course that wasn’t the end of it. When was it ever so? The sun had barely emerged as a pink fingernail on the horizon when my hand comm chirruped in my waist pouch. This was ten meters away, along with the rest of my clothes.

     Brutus, for so I named her, showed no inclination to release such a rich source of warmth, and gods, I didn’t want to leave this body hug just yet, either. Oh well. I stretched forth my free hand, the new new left one.

     The hand comm made an oddly hard thump as it whipped through the grass into the false meat of my false hand. I settled back in Brutus’s coils, pillowing my neck on hers as I put the comm to my ear. “Jambo?”

     “The correct greeting would be I ni sogoma, young miss, but we will let it pass this time,” a firm male voice replied. “Am I speaking to Miss Jamai Dlamini?”

     “Yes,” I said, suddenly a little nervous.

“My name is Oumar Hadad, the local prefect for this hamlet. Would it be possible for you to spare me a few minutes?”

     “H-have I done something wrong?”

     “Not at all. Your Captain Ismalla discovered you missing this morning and got it into his head that you would be in the fields, with a snake. And so you are.”

     My body seemed to have frozen, even snug in Brutus’ coils, though my stare darted left and right. “Don’t be alarmed. The local children spotted you sleeping from some trees they were climbing. They almost took you for dead, but for the fact that you were snoring.”

     “I snore…?”

     “My deputy has been watching you via long-range glasses, to see to your safety. He will escort you to my office, in your own time.”

     My own time…I could make them wait another hour… 

     No, best to be done with it. “Whenever he’s done masturbating, I’d like to dress in peace.”

     A deliberate pause followed. “Let me speak with him. You can pull yourself together while I’m berating him.” And the comm chirrped off.

http://fav.me/dbb04xa

Deviantart link 

Red River Range (1938) feat. John Wayne as Stoney Brooke

Another George Sherman time-spender, this Western is a curious mix of old & new throwing in cowboys, automobiles and trucks loaded with rustled cattle. Early on is a funny scene where the cattleman’s association can’t figure where all their cows are going, and al their 10-gallon hats are piled on the table in front of them. Naturally the Three Mesquiteers are the first people the governor sends for to help.  

Which is not to say they’re the first to the scene. Stony switches places with an old friend, Tex (natch) to infiltrate the rustling gang. Tex has been sent by the Meat Packers association to investigate, and he’s quite a singer as well. It’s actually a clever scheme where they slaughter the cattle on the spot and then bury the hides. It’s a bit of a dark subject, which would probably receive a gorier interpretation if it were made nowadays.

This is my fourth Mesquiteers oater, and the Duke’s last string of B-movies before his fortunes changed forever with Stagecoach. I hadn’t noticed before that the surnames of two Mesquiteers are Smith & Johnson. That subject came up while all three heroes show up for dinner at the same time so they can all hit on the same girl, Jane Mason; she is played by Republic serial star Lorna Gray. 

Stony (ie Duke) for his part is hit on by Mrs. Maxwell, a fat lady rustler played by vaudeville star Polly Moran. All hi efforts to evade her are for naught. Duke proves to be very talented at pretending he can’t ride a horse. 

“Think them trucks are involved in the rustling?”  

“Nahh, (they’d) never get enough of them in there.”  

“Well, what do you think (they’ve) been doin’?”    

     -actual movie dialogue

An agreeable time-spender, this nonetheless has its clichés, which is what you can expect from a 1930’s flick. Of course there is the stereotypical subservient black servant, and of course the man in charge of the cattle rustlers is the town’s leading citizen. One of the Duke’s last flings before he walks into legend. 

Sanity's Edge--themes

    

     Every novel has a point, a unifying theme that knits all the threads together. There may be more than one, just as there are more than one character driving the narrative. Here’s the most important one.   

     Essentially I think this story is about isolation, the isolation others impose on us and that we impose on ourselves. When we don’t feel worthy, feel worthless, often wrongly, sometimes we have an overwhelming feeling that we’re alone.   We’ve always been alone and maybe it’s something we deserve.  

     But that’s not really true. We’re not alone; we don’t have to be alone.

Buterfly and Serpent Space excerpt

The following is a short scene from "Kalila Maji", part two in my book Butterfly & Serpent, published by Createspace
Jamai has been captured by an interdimensional spectre named Sydelle, and is about to see a stunning vista.


She answered with a smile reflected in hungry eyes. “You came to learn of me? Come, see.”

She inclined her head, and I followed the direction of her gaze. We were still in Mokoyo Springs. But the Moon was gone. A massive orb filled its space, filled nearly the entire sky, but for one narrow sliver near its upper hemisphere. Clouds of the purest blue blanketed its surface, if it had any, clouds layered with chalk-white jet streams. Occasionally its troposphere was punctuated with crackles of lightning, traversing an entire hemisphere. “Is that…?”

“No,” Sydelle replied with an eye as full of wonder as mine. “Our home was in orbit around what you see, our Parent Body. The core of our home was a powerful magnetic orb with predictable magnetic reversals, which acted in conjunction with those of our Parent Body’s poles. On those dates, we could see into other realms as the barriers separating each sphere thinned, due to the two bodies’ electromagnetic reverses.

The above is actually a NASA image of the planet Neptune.

Available still as a print or Kindle Editon at amazon.com

https://www.amazon.com/Butterfly-Serpent-Michael-Robbins-ebook/dp/B0088K8DIU/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1487044940&sr=8-1&keywords=Butterfly+and+Serpent+Michael+Robbins

Sanity's Edge-draft preview

Just composed this the other night:

"I'll give you one chance. Walk away. I have nothing to live for and everything to protect. This child is going back to her village. If you try to stop me, if any of your goons come between us and her tree house, i will end you."

This comes towards the end of the novel. Main protagonist Jamai has lost a child thanks to her prime antagonist Goukoni. He's made the mistake of threatening the 600-year-old child who saved her.

More to come. Enjoy.