Showing posts with label nicholas wade. Show all posts
Showing posts with label nicholas wade. Show all posts

Wednesday, December 2, 2015

Aphasia

Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History

There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?

Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.

Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.

Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital  endangerment.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Mordantly Fecund

"I need time to grieve."-- Allison Joseph

Not all New Wave cinema is necessarily an accurate representation, and Liza Minnelli's video worn recycle The Sterile Cuckoo  is a dated antiquity, which, memories of Garland's biography like episodic flash cards in the comparison, led me to look on Minnelli's performance as an exploration of mother's emotional pain, with a light hearted side. Liza is not her mother-- though her capital comes from Judy's passion, a heart which transcends the avant garde which surrounds Judy's overdose and death. That Pokey is hostile to homosexual codex would lead mortally wounded souls to wonder that gay pride activists don't get the sturdy network vehicle taken off the air.

When I saw Allison's picture, realized she might have read my powerful essay about the scars of inner city living, and my sparse, but nevertheless substantial communiques with her over the years, my rage against diversity being forced down my throat, I shriveled with an OMG moment, having made apparently erroneous assumptions about her ethnicity. Usually, when she communicates to the list en masse, I normally join in with perfuse accolades and praise, which are sincere despite my class conflicts here in the dungeon, but when she announced a death in the family, I quelled the urge to join in with digital comfort, because all I've ever had with her are one-sided conversations. What we generate in epistomological contexts simply through research--not that I am able to judge whether I've caused her offense. I used to assert I was biased, at first, and I've since graduated-- but my reasons for this are simple. Integration, in principle, has an abstract, noble liberal sentiment. Reality is something else, and I applaud the courage of Nicholas Wade, though of course, he would shun me for being deliberately rude, sometimes hotly vitriolic-- the fact remains, however, that Allison has the luxury of her reticence and commitment to helping writers. I live with the fear of being exterminated by women like Trudy Richardson on the one hand, and inner city women who need to indulge their own comfort in exploiting me, or going through more trauma through urban crime. 

Allison could say she is vulnerable as well. Being a minority academic is no guarantee of indemnity--, but she has a salary, the security of tenure, and I bust my hump for peanuts.