Rantings of a Black Polemicist

An employed Negro

Saturday, July 3rd, 2004 | Personal | 29 Comments

That’s me.

I scored a consulting gig for a subsidiary of a Fortune 500 company playing an important role (they’ve promised) on a software development team. I’m billing them as an independent consultant, earning twice what I was making at my last job - and that one paid well. It’s certainly better than than I ever thought I’d be doing at 28. What’s most gratifying here is that I feel validated again. I feel that my talent is finally being acknowledged. It’s a good feeling.

Even in this post-dot-com era, most professional software development environments are still relaxed. “Business Casual” to be specific. This place is straight-up casual on Fridays, the day I interviewed with my new boss. I kid you not, he was wearing a t-shirt, wrinkled khaki shorts, white socks and run-over tennis shoes that may have also been white at some point. I don’t care what people do around me. As a relatively young black male, I don’t think I can to simultaneously take these liberties and be perceived as the professional that I am.

Imagine me walking in on a Friday: My hair in corn-rows, sporting a Sixer’s throwback jersey, denim shorts and work boots. Despite what my resume says, my appearance will remind them of the thugs they see on the 6-o’clock news. I doubt my white counterpart’s decision to wear a tie-dyed shirt, shorts and and Birkenstocks will create a different perception about his ability to do his job.

In his song Mr. Nigga, Mos Def speaks about the black man who’s achieved success but not respect:

He under thirty years old
But already he’s a pro
Designer trousers slung low
Because his pockets stay swoll’
Could afford to get up and be anywhere he go
VIP at the club, backstage at the show
(Yes y’all) the best crib, the best clothes
Hottest whips on the road
Neck and wrists on froze (say word)
Checks with 0-0-0-0-0-0’s
Straight all across the globe
Watch got three time-zones
Keep a digital phone up to his dome
Two assistants
Two bank accounts, two homes
One problem
Even with the O’s on his check
The po-po stop him and show no respect
“Is there a problem officer?”
Damn straight, it’s called race
That motivate the jake (woo-woo) to give chase
Say they want you successful, but that ain’t the case
You livin’ large, your skin is dark
They flash a light in your face

While I’ve never been treated unfairly by police, I’ve noticed that there is a relationship between the way I present myself and how I’m treated. In light of this, I’ve decided that “Business Casual” will not apply to me. Nor will “Minimum Requirements”. During our status meeting today, my team members and bosses were all dressed in jeans and sneakers. I’m wearing a custom dress shirt, cashmere dress pants, a killer blue blazer and my freshly-shined Bruno Magli shoes. No off-color jokes, no goofing off and my work exceeds all expectations. This should be no surprise to anyone. After all, I am the consummate professional.

Being black brings a unique set of challenges. For me, it includes the need to be twice as good at what I do. It includes the burden of working against preconceptions about me created by images in the media, the shiftless security guard in the lobby and the wanna-be thugs loitering on the corner.

Bill Clinton’s Memoirs: My Doorstop

Thursday, July 1st, 2004 | Politics | 35 Comments

I was one of the 2 million people that pre-ordered the former president’s book online. I was (naively) hoping that the president would come clean and talk about his sexual addiction. I anticipated an inspirational, heartwarming story about how this little boy from a poor background and abusive home went on to graduate from Oxford, Yale and become the president of the United States.

Instead I got a dry, tedious story “inspired by actual events”. He made it look like his tryst with Monica was the one “error” that the Right Wing Attack Machine used to nail him to the cross. The reality, as he told Monica (who later testified under oath), is that she was one of “hundreds” of affairs he’d had. Never mind his admissions later that he’d lied about Monica and Gennifer and settled with Paula.

Like it or not, any summary of the Clinton presidency will always include “impeachment” and “intern” with whatever good was done, no matter how well the book sells or how big the William Jefferson Clinton Memorial Library is.

I don’t know how many trees died to print his book, but it was not completely in vain. At least I’ve got a convienient way to keep my door propped open.