After several days in the hospital, and some very expensive tests, it was determined that I didn’t have a heart attack, but myocarditis, an inflammation of the heart muscle brought about by an infection from the pneumonia. I felt relieved that I hadn’t suffered a heart attack—and was even dismissive when one doctor had told me I was lucky to be alive. As far as I was concerned, it was only myocarditis, and not anything to really worry about. But the truth of the matter is that myocarditis is a lot like having a heart attack. As the website Medicine Net describes it, “Patients who have had myocarditis are at some risk for sudden unexpected, potentially fatal, heart rhythm abnormalities.” In other words, myocarditis can kill you just like a heart attack can kill you. And had I waited much longer to go to the hospital, there’s a chance mine could’ve killed me.

It took some time to really come to grips with how sick I actually had been, and how much healing I needed to do. One year later, I look back on what was the most difficult year of my life. Less than two months after being hospitalized one of my best friends died unexpectedly. Barry’s death was followed by two more deaths in less than three weeks, for a grand total of seven friends dying over the course of five months. And then, just when things seemed like they couldn’t get worse, my mom was hospitalized for two weeks, for what at the time seemed to be a ruptured disc in her spine. This combination of events plunged me into the deepest depression I have ever known, accompanied by frequent anxiety attacks.

Much of the past year has been spent spiraling out of control, in which I’ve spent more days suffering from depression and anxiety attacks than I have not. Nothing is as it was. I can’t get past the fear of dying in my sleep. Every time my phone rings I worry it is a friend calling to tell me someone has died. Whenever I talk to someone I can’t help but wonder if it will be the last time. Not a day goes by where I don’t think about Barry, trying make sense of his death, and beating myself up for the things I never said or did when he was alive. This has become the new normal that I struggle to change every day.

There’s an episode of The Simpsons where Homer has a heart attack, undergoes triple bypass surgery, and says, “Whatever doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” To which Dr. Hibbert replies, “Oh no, quite the opposite. It’s made you weak as a kitten.” And that’s kind of how its been with me for the last 365 days. But despite all I’ve been through, and the dark place I seem to spend most of my time in, I hold out that things will get better, that I will get stronger, and of course, that life will go on.

With the immense popularity of superhero movies like The Dark Knight and Iron Man, I suppose it was only a matter of time before we saw people dressing up in homemade costumes and taking to the streets to fight crime. And that’s what filmmaker Michael Barnett’s documentary is all about—the everyday, “normal” people who have decided to take a stand against the crime that eats away at our society. I say “normal” because, let’s be honest, it really does take a special kind of person to put on a suit that is semi-ridiculous in nature, and face off against serial sex offenders, drug dealers, and drunk drivers. Some of these self-styled superheroes do it better than others, and some to be a bit more cuckoo-for-cocoa-puffs, but all are resolute in their convictions.

Barnett traverses the United States to profile costumed crime fighters practicing their craft in Florida, California, Utah, New York, and Oregon. Some, like the various crusaders in New York, seem like they might actually know what they’re doing and could probably beat some serious ass, while one guy in another state—whom I won’t mention—seems to be at least three types of crazy. At least one person is well-intentioned, completely delusional, and seems like an accident waiting to happen, while another—who dresses up with his wife—seems to have found a fairly safe niche, handing out care packages to the homeless. But when push comes to shove, everyone in this movie is not exactly what pops into mind when thinking of a superhero, and that’s because real life is nothing like the movies. Even a film like Kick-Assis make-believe in that it makes you believe dressing up like a crime fighter to fight crime is more action-packed than it is.

Superheroesis an entertaining and charming film, though it’s probably not what some might be expecting. For one thing, there’s not much real crime fighting captured by Barnett and his crew, which might be a good thing, considering the fact that it could probably be used against any one of these vigilantes. But the other aspect of the film that is likely to defy some expectations is the fact that Barnett never casts judgment on his subjects, never mocks them, and never takes the film to obvious levels that would leave some people looking like losers or lunatics, or both. And to be sure, there are some people in this film who come across looking like a special breed of delusional dunderhead, but it has nothing to do with the film itself—it’s all about traipsing around in a stupid-looking costume and opening their mouths to speak.

Without much action or mocking of its subjects, Superheroes presents itself as a respectful examination of small cross-section of the population committed to doing good by making poor fashion choices. Some of the people are actually inspiring, and don’t need their costumes to make a difference. It is simply a symbolic gesture that gives them some greater sense of purpose, as if confronting drug dealers and helping the homeless isn’t good enough. And then there are those who are a few cans short of a six-pack. But both types are compelling enough to make Superheroes engaging and worth watching, even though the film itself does not make me want to put on a costume and fight crime.

By the time 1996 rolled around I was chomping at the bit to shoot my documentary, but things weren’t happening fast enough. I had all this creative energy, and no place to let it all go, and it really felt like I was going to die. Unsure of when I was going to actually start shooting my documentary, I decided that I need to blow off some of this creative energy that was building up. I had all these notes about dozens of blaxploitation flicks I’d watched that were never really meant to be anything other than random observations and thoughts, but I decided to do something with them. And that’s how BadAzz MoFo was born. This was during the height of the 1990s ‘zine explosion, and there were a ton of great publications to inspire me (most notable were Shock Cinema, Psychotronic, and Giant Robot). Not knowing what I was doing, how to do it, or if anyone would care, I launched my own ‘zine. I wrote, edited and designed it myself, and after my good friend Von printed it up at his work (after hours at his job, which is how we all published our ‘zines back then), I collated, stapled and folded all of them myself.

Things were a lot different back in those days. For one thing, the Internet didn’t exist as it does now. There were still a ton of brink-and-mortar stores willing to do business with indie publishers. The first digest-sized issue of BadAzz MoFo came out in 1996, and by 1998 it had grown into a full-sized publication with distribution in worldwide. I was moving copies in Africa, Asia, Australia, Europe, and South and North America. I could walk into a Tower Books, or a Virgin Mega Store or a Borders in any city in the United States, and find a copy of BadAzz MoFo either shelved with the film magazines, or in the small press section. I remember being in New York City once, and walking into three stores with five blocks of each other, and seeing copies of BAMF at all three. And here’s the most important thing to keep in mind: I did it all for no money. Sure, I would get money from various distributors and retailers, but that money always went to paying for the next issue. I wrote the vast majority of every issue, edited every issue, designed every issue, and carried out all the other tasks an indie publishers must do—not because I wanted to get rich, but because I had this creative energy inside me. Over the last fifteen years, under the BadAzz MoFo moniker, I have published six digest-sized magazines, seven full-sized magazines, a calendar, two comic books and two regular books (and that doesn’t include Darius Logan: Super Justice Force, my Young Adult novel that I also self-published).

Some of you know the story of the last full-sized issue of BadAzz MoFo, but just in case you don’t, here’s the short version…my main distributor declared bankruptcy owing me a little over $4000. Although this wasn’t enough to kill my indie publishing empire, it crippled it. But my all-consuming need to be creative, even in the face of financial loss, was not completely deterred. I still managed to put of BAMF Super Digest #3, which I think is one of the best publications I’ve ever done. Utilizing print-on-demand I published BadAzz MoFo’s Book of BLAXPLOITATION, Volume One and Why’s The Brotha Gotta Die?!? without taking too much of a financial hit. Again, the reason I did all of this was because this is what I do. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I’m a creative person. And all of this is stuff I’ve been sharing has been a build-up to what it is that I’m really getting at…some people who call themselves “creative” or “artistic” are really full of crap, and it’s time to shit or get off the pot.

In addition to the long publishing history I’ve just shared with you, there is also my work as a filmmaker. I actually did make that blaxploitation documentary. It took seven years to finish, only to get caught in a web of legal nonsense that kept it from getting a real distribution deal, but I finished it, and you can watch it online for free. I’ve written, produced and directed three feature-length films and a short, as well as having written some shorts for other filmmakers. And you know what? I didn’t get paid for any of that stuff either. In fact, I paid money out of my own project for all of my film projects. I went into so much debt making my documentary that I had to declare bankruptcy, and then I turned around and made four more films—including Damaged Goods and Black Santa’s Revenge. I’ve yet to break even on any of these films, but I made them because I wanted to make movies, regardless of whether or not someone was going to give me money.

Every time I hear some filmmaker or comic book creator or writer say, “I need to get paid,” my blood starts to boil. Yeah, getting paid is great, but if that’s why you’re doing whatever it is you claim to do, then just give it up right now. I’ve been lucky in that I have been paid to write, but I don’t write to get paid. I write because I have ideas that I want to share with other people, to inform them, or to make them laugh, or to simply help them get through the difficulties that come from moment-to-moment existence on this planet. I write because I love to write. I blow all my money making movies and self-publishing magazines, comics, and books because to not do those things would be a slow death.

I’m not a religious person, and for that matter I’m not even all that spiritual, but I do believe that creativity is a gift. And I believe if that you have a creative gift that you don’t use because you’re not getting paid to do it, then that is one of the worst sins of all. Think of that favorite song you have that inspires you, or that painting that transports you to a different place, or that film that always puts a smile on your face. That is the power of creativity. It transforms our mundane existence into an extraordinary one, even if it is only for a few fleeting seconds. And if you have it in you to transform the existence of another, even for a moment, and you’re holding out for a paycheck, then you don’t deserve to have the gift of creativity, because you are denying the world of a little bit of magic.

Earlier this year one of my best friends died unexpectedly. Barry was not only a great friend, he was one of the most creative and talented people I know, and an amazing musician. He never waited for someone to pay him to write and record his songs, and he never got rich off his music, but everyone who heard his music was better because of it. His music changed my life for the better. It made me happy when I was sad. It inspired me when I had nothing else to inspire me. And even though Barry is gone, his music lives on, not just as a source of inspiration, but as a reminder of our friendship. But it wouldn’t have been possible if he was one of those people who sat around and said, “I won’t do it if I’m not getting paid.”

This is my challenge to all of you who claim to be creative or artistic—and I know I’m stealing this from Nike—just do it. There will never be enough money or enough time to do the things we want to do, but we must find a way around those petty obstacles. If you don’t have the money to make that million-dollar indie film you want to make, make a no-budget film instead. You don’t need state-of-the-art cameras. You can shoot a movie with the camera built into an iPhone. Don’t believe me? Here’s a film I wrote for a friend that was shot on an iPhone over the course of about three hours.

Is it great? Maybe not. But it is done. It is an idea I had, that was made real because no one involved waited for someone to pay us.

I wish someone would pay me for the things I create. I’d settle for not having to pay to produce them myself. But that isn’t how things are right now. So I’m going to keep on keeping on. Into 2012 you will see a new book from me that I will publish myself, a new short film from me that I will also produce myself, and a new comic book that I may self-publish. But I would also really like to see the film that you produce, read the book that you write, hear the songs that you record. I want to be able to flip through the pages of your comic book while you tell me what a great feeling it is to actually have created something. If you have a creative gift, use it. Don’t put a price on it, or wait for someone to pay you to do something that you really want to do anyway. The bottom line is this: if you are a filmmaker who doesn’t make film, a musician who doesn’t make music, a writer who doesn’t write, an artist who is not true to the creative energy that fuels your soul, then you are, quite simply, full of shit.

Okay, so just in case you didn’t watch the video, basically this guy was complaining about how some black people act, and how black society as a whole is largely judged by a certain type of behavior. He is calling for the boycott of black people—though he himself is black—because as he sees it, this is the best way to end the destructive and oppressive cycle of the black experience in America. I’m pretty sure I get where he is coming from, because as a black man—or more specifically, a biracial man who identifies as being black—I have thought and said much of what this guy is saying. But the problem is that he is not really addressing the real problem, or at least he’s not articulating in a way that is clear.

Ultimately, what this man is talking about is Afrocentricity versus ghettocentricity. Now, before I go any further, let me make sure everyone knows what I mean when I refer to any sort of ethnocentricity. In the Strangers on These Shore, Vincent Parrillo explains ethnocentrism as “people’s tendency to identify with their own ethnic or national group as a means of fulfilling their needs for group belongingness and security.”

Afrocentricity refers to an identity or ideological sense of being and behavior derived from the African-American experience in the United States, which in and of itself is informed in part by the much larger Eurocentric ideologies of America. That is to say that the dominant ethnocentric mindset of America is derived from ideologies that are of white, European origin—which have created a socio-political paradigm that perpetuates the myth of white superiority and black inferiority. In other words, part of how black people define themselves through Afrocentricity has in fact been created as a result of Eurocentric dominance and oppression.

Over the last two decades Afrocentrism has splintered off into what some people refer to as “ghettocentrism,” is a phenomenon in which the more negative and stereotypical aspects of black culture are widely accepted as the norm. In his book Buppies, B-Boys, Baps & Bohos, Nelson George writes that “ghettocentricity means making the values and lifestyles of America’s poverty-stricken urban homelands central to one’s being.”

Ghettocentricity is an evolution of Afrocentricty, which is itself a cultural identifier that developed amongst a group of people who had been stripped of their humanity and their various cultures. The formation of Afrocentricity parallels the black slave experience in America, which is the experience of a people who were regarded as property and not human beings. The pervasive presence of ghettocentricity reflects a long-running tradition of the Eurocentric ideology to control the perception of black people, and measure the worth of blacks in purely capitalistic terms.

Ghettocentricty has become confused with Afrocentricty by many people, both black and white, and as a result it is often used as a means of ethnic identification for black people. The predominant accepted role of black America, outside of entertainment and sports, is a series of stereotypes and statistics that are a showcase of ghettocentrism and a perpetuation of the myth of black inferiority, which only reinforces current majority/minority social constructs.

The most obvious examples of ghettocentrism can be found in hip-hop, which as a leading form of musical expression by black people is also, by default, a primary representation of black ethnicity. Popular rappers of the day become the most identifiable figures in hip-hop then in turn become the most identifiable black men in popular culture. The problem, of course, is that Lil Wayne and 50 Cent are amalgams of negative racial stereotypes and clichés that present black people as barely-literate thugs proud of their tenures within the prison industrial complex. Young people of all races and ethnicities throughout America can recite the lyrics to Lil Wayne songs, yet most do not know who James Baldwin, Lorraine Hansberry or Langston Hughes are.

The divide between Afrocentrism and ghettocentrism represents an ideological rift between black culture in America, in which the line of demarcation generally starts with socio-economic status. Afrocentrism, which many accuse of being cultural elitism, is found more often in middle class and affluent black families, whereas ghettocentrism is seen as the domain of the poor and uneducated. But as ghettocentricy continues and flourishes within mainstream pop culture, it subverts Afrocentricty by becoming the dominant ethnic identifier. The biggest problem facing black people is the acceptance of ghettocentricity as an ethnic identifier, and the continued use of ghettocentrism as a consumer product.

All of this has been my long-winded way of addressing the concept of boycotting black people. The sad reality is that we have long been boycotting ourselves, as evidenced by the dominance of ghettocentricity. As a culture we gave up on ourselves at our best, and allowed the more negative aspects of our culture to be those that not only most readily defined us, but also became a means by which we could be marketed, further perpetuating our status as a commodity. The true boycott that all people must face—not just black folks—is the rejection of long-established ideologies that continue to feed into the myths of white superiority and black inferiority. These ideologies have created an accepted reality in which the worst aspects of black culture are the defining aspects of black culture. And it is these ideologies and the ethnocentric constructs that inform this diseased way of thinking that must not only be boycotted, but eradicated from the core of our collective being.

DEATH RIDES A HORSE – 1967 director: Giulio Petroni; starring: Lee Van Cleef, John Phillip Law

There weren’t a lot of viewing options back when I first seriously became interested in spaghetti westerns. In those days you watched these movies on VHS, often times in poorly made copies with German, Greek, or Japanese subtitles. The picture quality was almost always bad, and the transfers were either fullframe and terribly cropped, pr ineptly pan and scanned, and either way you never got a true idea of what the film was supposed to look like. Most of the time this was a nuisance, but every once in a while, when the movie itself was really good, it felt like a cinematic crime. This was especially true of director Giulio Petroni’s Death Rides a Horse, one of the best spaghetti westerns of all time, with one of the worst home video transfers.  For many years I’d been trying to a copy of the film that was just plain decent, and by decent I mean one that was widescreen, without washed out colors, and no Turkish subtitles. Well, after almost two decades of looking and waiting, and feeling the painful sting of bitter disappointment by terrible transfers, there is finally a DVD with great picture quality, thanks to Wild East Productions, the leading distributors of quality spaghetti westerns on home video.

With the exception of Clint Eastwood, no American actor is more closely associated with spaghetti westerns than Lee Van Cleef. Already established as a character actor in both film and television westerns, Van Cleef would have likely spent his entire career as a supporting actor in a variety of roles. But his career took a dramatic turn when Sergio Leone cast him as one of the heroes in For a Few Dollars More, and then again as one of the villains in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. These two films reinigorated Van Cleef’s career, and turned him into a major star in Italian westerns. He would go on to star in over a dozen more spaghetti westerns, inluding his own franchise film, Sabata. And yet with all these westerns to chose from, with the exception of Leone’s film, none of those starring Van Cleef would ever top Death Rides a Horse.

This grim tale of vengeance starts when young Bill Mecita witnesses the brutal murder of his family by a group of marauding bandits. An unseen stranger saves Bill from from the family’s burning house, and fifteen years later the boy has grown up to be John Philip Law (Golden Voyage of Sinbad). And if you were to guess that Bill has spent the last decade and a half training himself to become a well-oiled killing machine with only one thing on his mind, then you wouldn’t be too far off base. Bill is looking to send the varmints that butchered his family on a one way trip to Boot Hill. But it seems our hero ain’t the only one looking for a little pay back. A gunslinger named Ryan (Van Cleef), fresh out of prison, has a few scores to settle, and his path of revenge crosses with that of our Bill. Will the two men come to see that they can both join together on their murder-happy spree, or will they allow petty differences like blinding hatred and the all consuming need for vengeance to keep them apart?

Directed by Giulio Petroni, and accompanied by Ennio Morricone’s score, Death Rides a Horse is a shining moment in a genre that was more often than not plagued with some truly crappy filmmaking. Luciano Vincenzoni has crafted a great script, which should come as no surprise, since he co-wrote For a Few Dollars More and The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. John Philip Law turns in a decent performance, although his performance at times resembles that of a plank of wood. And even when he’s not wooden, he still seems like he has a pole up his ass. But despite Law’s performance which neither makes nor breaks the film, the one thing Death Rides a Horse has going for it is Lee Van Cleef. Giving one of the more inspired performances of his spaghetti western career, Van Cleef steals the film and helps elevate to level well above so many other genre entries.

When I first heard of the documentary Reel Injun: On the Trail of the Hollywood Indian, I was more than a little bit excited. I’m a sucker for docs about film, especially those that examine aspects of cinematic history that are seldom discussed. So for me, the subject of how Native American Indians are portrayed in film—something I have been obsessed with and written about at length—was exactly what I’ve been waiting for. And in some ways, Reel Injunis very much what I was looking for, while in other ways it falls short of some expectations.

In what amounts to something of a personal journey, filmmaker Neil Diamond (not to be confused with the singer of the same name) sets out to find deconstruct and understand the complicated history of American Indians in motion pictures. A Native American himself, Diamond sets out on a cross-country road trip in a “rez car”—which is explained in the film—on a mission to find out how and why Indians have come to be portrayed on film the way they have. Along the way he talks to some insightful critics and historians—all of whom are interesting in their own right, but not the sort of people you want to build a documentary around. And while these talking heads really break things down, they ultimately take a backseat to the recognizable faces and names that populate Reel Injun—Clint Eastwood, Adam Beach, Wes Studi, Jim Jarmusch, Chris Eyre, John Trudell, activist Russell Means, and Sacheen Littlefeather, to name a few. No one is uninteresting, which is to say that everyone has something either informative or entertaining to share, whether it is Eastwood talking about his Outlaw Josey Wales co-star Chief Dan George, or Littlefeather explaining how she came to be the person who “accepted” Marlon Brando’s Oscar for The Godfather. And to be sure, the now nearly-forgotten moment when Brando, through Littlefeather, spoke out in support of the Natives who at the time were engaged in a stand-off with federal forces at Wounded Knee, is part of what makes Reel Injun such a compelling film. Hearing Russell Means recount what it was like at Wounded Knee, when word came in of Brando’s support and Littlefeather’s actions, delivers a unique history lesson.

At its strongest, Reel Injun is filled with moments detailing how the world of film overlaps with real life (and vice versa), and how this overlap has played out insofar as native peoples are concerned. To be sure, Native Americans have long been on the receiving end of some very bad treatment, and Hollywood is not exempt of that treatment. But at times the film falls short of really digging into how bad things were. Diamond mentions the many white actors to don redface make-up and play Indians, but when you consider that this in and of itself could be a full documentary, the cursory examination seems a bit too abbreviated. And of course, that leads to some of what isn’t even in the doc, like mention of actor Jay Silverheels, who portrayed Tonto, the Lone Ranger’s faithful sidekick/savior, or the string of Billy Jack-inspired injunsploitation films like Johnny Firecloud, or the mind-blowing Thunder Warrior series from Italy, which ripped off the Rambo movies and fused them with injunsploitation conventions.

Still, despite what is missing from Reel Injun, it is outweighed by what is in the film (including some funny observations from comedian Charlie Hill). Knowing what I know, it is easy for me to say that Reel Injun is not the end-all-be-all of docs on this subject, but at the same time, it is the only documentary I know of on this subject, which means that it must do for the time being. And to be honest, when all is said and done, it does well.

My father and mother were both very young when she got knocked up—a pair of college students that were still very much children themselves. My father died when I was two years old, leaving my mother alone to raise me, and me with not a single memory of him. I’ve often wondered if it is possible to miss someone you never really knew. Is it them you miss, or the idea of who they were, or what they may have represented? Do I miss my father, or do I miss simply not having one?

I wish that I could say life got easier without a dad as I grew older, but in nearly every way I can think of, it became more difficult. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got plenty of friends who grew up with inept fathers, and they all claim they’d have been better off without their dads around, ignoring them or abusing them, or doing whatever damage they did. But if there is one good thing about having a crappy dad, I’d imagine it would be the fact that it gives you a stick by which to measure yourself. If I’d had a father who was around—whether he was a good man or a bad man—at least I would’ve had someone to gauge myself against. I would have had someone I could’ve looked at and said, “I’ll never be like him” or “I want to be just like him.” Instead I had neither, and as I grew older, and tried to define myself as a man, I searched for some indication that I was doing it right or doing it wrong. Of course, I had my grandfather and other relatives, but it was not the same as having a father—or at least not the same as I’ve always imagined it to be.

I try not to spend too much time thinking about this stuff, or wondering about what my life would have been like if I’d had a father around. And yet I think about it quite often. It is the elusive inner peace that I can’t seem to find, no matter how hard I try. We all have these issues, brought about by one trauma or another, and these issues plague us as much as they define us. They are the faulty parts from which we are all constructed—the roof that leaks, the basement that floods—and it is up to us to learn to live with these emotional/psychological flaws and find the best way of coping. For me, the best way to cope seems to be to write about these things.

This time of year is when I think about my father the most, when my roof starts to leak and my basement starts to flood. Today is his birthday, yesterday was mine, and I can’t help but think of all those annoying joint birthday parties we never had, where we’d have to share the same cake. I would’ve hated those as a kid, and cherished them as an adult. But this was not to be, and so every year at this time I get lost in the possibility of what my life could have been, even though I know it’s not too healthy to dwell in that space for too long. And I’ll be honest when I say that things have gotten worse as I’ve grown older.

It took me a while to figure out why, but now I know. For more years than I care to remember, I wished that I could know my dad, and have a conversation with him, even if it was just for a few minutes. But the fact of the matter is that even if that was possible, I’d be talking to a kid in his early 20s who made some very bad decisions that left his son without a father. And the reality is that I am now old enough to be the father of that 20-something kid. Even if the greatest, most unrealistic wish of my life could be fulfilled, it would do me very little good. Even if the greatest miracle of miracles gave me a few minutes of time with my father, I’d be in the company of a boy with no wisdom of how to be a man. And more than anything, that’s what I’ve be longing for my whole life.

Being the “first black” anything in America is not exactly easy. Whether it is the first black family to move into an all-white neighborhood, the first black player in a professional sports league, or the first black President of the United States, the challenge of being the historically “first black” fill-in-the-blank can bring with it unparalleled levels of scrutiny and criticism. And it also brings unparalleled amounts of racism because, let’s face it, America is an extremely racist nation that has never fully grappled with the all-consuming and pervasive ideology of racial superiority/inferiority that is the foundation on which this country has been built.

As we swiftly approach the 2012 presidential election, and enter into what is sure to be his grueling reelection campaign for President Obama, I find myself in a state of deep reflection. I want to see Obama reelected, if for no other reason than the fact I see nothing good coming from a Republican president at this time (nor at any time in the foreseeable future). At the same time, I feel a certain amount of dread over what Obama will face in a second term.

Make no mistake about it, the opposition that has plagued Obama, and much of the criticism of him and his policies, has far less to do with politics than it does race. Yes, if Obama were a white man he’d still be facing the disdain and ire of the GOP and the Tea Party, but it is not the same. There is an underlying level of racism found within the opposition and criticism of President Obama that some white people see and acknowledge, and that most black people comprehend on a level that is hard-wired into our existence. Some black folks, like Herman Cain, may not get it, but most of us comprehend it the way we comprehend a noticeable shift in the weather, or the setting of the sun. It is difficult to exist in America as a black person and not understand and comprehend the subtle and insidious nature of racism in a way that is not unlike that of comprehending the clouds blocking out the sun just before the rain starts to fall.

Racism in America is very much like the weather. It exists in patterns. It varies from region to region. It surrounds us all the time. And it can affect all of us, though not all of us in the same way. There are measures you can take to battle the weather, or more accurately adapt to it, but wherever you go, there is weather that you must contend with in one capacity or another. The same is true with racism, especially for black folks. We can adapt to it in certain ways, but no matter what, everyday we feel the effects of the racial climate in this country. And some, like Obama, and the others who have been the “first blacks” in some capacity or another, are especially ravaged by the torrential downpour, the freezing winds, the scorching heat, and the completely inescapable deluge of racism that swoops in like a force of nature and destroys much of what is in its path.

I have never been a “first black,” but I have been an “only black,” and that in and of itself is difficult enough to endure. The “only black” is the person who exists as the sole person of color in a given setting—the only black person in a classroom, or at the work place, or at a party. And as such, the “only black” can often be subjected to extreme patterns of both subtle and obvious racism in ways similar to those experienced by “first blacks.” And as is the case with firsts and onlys, sometimes we must endure the racism and fight through it, without pointing it out because by pointing it out we give it an added strength. For some it is difficult to comprehend this dilemma, and rightfully so, as it is complex and difficult to understand. But the reality is that if you are a “first black” or an “only black” – in much the same way if you are the “first” or “only” anything—you must prove yourself capable on your own merits. And to call out racism is to call out for some sort of “special consideration,” which is to admit weakness.

Now don’t get me wrong, because I know that this paradigm is flawed, if for no other reason than the fact that the pervasive racist and sexist ideologies of this country creates new and more difficult barriers to overcome. But to point these out plays into the most insidious tactic of the oppressor which is this: the oppressors of our society cultivate the ideological belief of the inferiority of non-whites and women, and then enforce these beliefs of weakness and incompetence through a system that is more difficult for so-called minorities to navigate. If you are black, or a woman, or some other minority, caught in the systemic ideology that adheres to a belief in white male superiority, and you point out the oppressive nature of this system, you run the risk of being perceived as weak and inferior. This is why women and minorities can often be heard saying that they must work twice as hard as white men to prove themselves—it’s because the system is set up to favor white men.

One of my greatest hopes is that after Obama’s time in office is over, he will some day write a book, in which he calls a cracker a cracker, and shares what I’m sure are some very interesting insights regarding the racism he has faced every day he has served as president. Chances are good he won’t really do it, because in all honesty, America is not ready to hear the truth about itself. But that won’t stop me from breaking it down from time to time.

All of this is my way of saying that President Obama is dealing with things no other president has had to deal with. And I believe Obama is smart enough to know that calling out the racism he is dealing with would merely put him in the position of being perceived as weak and making excuses, because that is how racism works. It is very similar to what Jackie Robinson went through went he became the first black player in Major League Baseball. He had to tough it out. He had to put up with the racism and prove himself to be a great ball player who took all that was dished out to him with dignity and grace. And believe me when I say that it ain’t easy. Anyone who finds themselves in the position of being a “first” must withstand a special kind of heat—their feet held to a different kind of fire—because America likes its Negroes well-done.

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