The carefully embedded and powerful term “dickmatized” in Soctt’s lyrics caught the attention of fans and critics alike and for no other reason than the fact that it resonated with those who heard it and could be honest enough to recognize the wrong reasons they have stayed in dead-end  relationships.  In short, the conclusion is that good sex can cloud your judgment and have you doing things, saying things and going places that you know are not aligned with who you really are and what you really need.

While it is clear that dickmatization is a process with many female victims, I will   say that women aren’t the only ones who allow themselves to get caught up in the physical side of relationships. In conversations with gay friends and acquaintances, it seems that dickmatism has found it’s way into the hearts of many bodies and minds across differences in gender, race, class, and sexual-orientation.

But what do we say about the the hosts of this “virus”, if you will? Since those who become dickmatized received their dickmatism from someone, who are these men with the skills necessary to use their talented phallic instruments in such a way that causes clouded judgment and poor decisions for those who receive them? Certainly, not every man out there has the ability to initiate the process of dickmatization. Some might call it a craft,  but truth be told, while it can be great, as Scott and others point out, the unfortunate and perhaps unintended consequences are dangerous to say the least.

In my experiences of analyzing masculinity and in conversations with men both gay and straight, I’ve found that sex and the ability to initiate dickmatization is something of which men are taught to be proud. Our society places high value on the idea that men are supposed to be strong emotionally and physically and often how we channel that strength and measure our attractiveness is by the level of desirability others hold for us.

In this view, sex becomes an opportunity for us to show our strength and our masculinity while simultaneously gaining the psycho-sociocultural points in the game of manhood. In our lessons on patriarchy, when I asked my teenage Black male students how society has taught them to view women, the answer was unanimous “as sexual objects.” For gay males who take on the popular persona of  hyper-masculinity channeled through sex, the answer is often the same but applicable to other males. Same theory and intention, different bodies. In some sense then, perhaps dickmatization comes when one allows themselves to be entered by someone who is self-dickmatized, that is, obsessed with and consumed by an ability to massage the ego and enhance self-esteem by facilitating great sex.

Now let’s be clear, there are some who are really good in bed and their partners don’t become dickmatized. That’s a win-win situation. But let’s remember that dickmatization isn’t about getting good sex, it’s about getting the kind of sex that’s so good that you can’t always see the reality that your relationship isn’t going anywhere and the great sex your partner is providing is essentially all he has to offer.

Do you know why the sex will be the only thing he’ll give you? Because if you’re dickmatized, you’re not in a state to require much else of him and more importantly yourself. In fact, he  is not concerned with all of your other needs if he too is self-absorbed by his ability to confuse the hell out of you. He’s self-dickmatized and that is a problem.

I suppose the outwardly apparent anger I’ve often expressed toward social injustice would not have, for many observers, made me appear to be a potential subscriber to Kingian nonviolence and I do believe that I am still working to fully integrate an understanding of nonviolence into my own life as I grew up learning to stand for self-defense, a proposition upheld and promoted by Brother Malcolm early on in his journey. Truth is, I don’t know where I would have stood in that moment of our history, but I do know I stand for equality and justice. I suppose then the devil is in the details of the methods I am willing and would have been willing to employ…

In any case, studying Malcom X’s autobiography in addition to the now “public” FBI records on Brother Malcolm infuriated me in my journey to fully comprehend the facets of racism that are woven into the very fabric of this nation. A Black boy who grew up in predominately W/white schools, I learned about the Civil Rights Movement and the atrocities inflicted upon Black and Brown peoples from afar until I found myself as a student in the Africana Studies Department of Rutgers University. It was there that I not only began to understand Black History and the ugly parts of American History which my textbooks so eloquently hid, but to understand myself and my multiple identities within the context of historical and now present discriminatory racial practices and unequal systemic influences that continue to greatly sever Black and W/white life in America.

In researching the life of Brother Malcolm, I took it upon myself to write an evaluation of the racist practices that influenced the infiltration of the Civil Rights Movement and race relations in the context of the struggle for Black liberation and freedom. In my analysis I often wrote the word, the identity “white” with a lowercase “W” and of course as a young Black man studying and being empowered by the history of his people, I wrote Black with a capital “B.” I did not, at first, see this difference for myself but a professor who reviewed the paper actually pointed it out and until this moment, at age 24, as I continue to study race relations now in the context of the American education system, I have not fully understood why. Even now, I can only speculate as I try to correct this trouble in my own perspective of the world beyond my light brown sometime pinkish-red skin.

Blackness for me was and is a thing, a practice, a foundational component of the political, social and cultural values by which people who self-identify and are socially identified as Black operate. Embracing my Blackness was a process by which I had to find enlightenment and strength in both the historical and contemporary injustices inflicted upon those “other” Americans who look like me. In that time, W/whiteness for me was an abstract intangible distant thing that engulfed our society in a way that did not have to be identified as its presence was just there, as the norm.

For me it was as if asking a child to look inside of a tank with a lizard inside and to identify everything he or she saw. A child and even an adult would certainly name the lizard as a thing. Perhaps there would be dirt, some small plant, a small log or two on which the lizard would climb. However, the child and the adult would not necessarily call out that there was oxygen in the tank. Surely if you asked the observer if there were oxygen in the tank the answer would be yes but as something that is always there and perhaps taken for granted it wouldn’t come to mind to call it out, to identify it as present because subconsciously its presence was just understood.

Surely there are limitations to this analogy; so much so that I will not delve too far beyond acknowledging their existence, but the main point remains that for me W/whiteness, at the time, was a common not a proper noun and I felt in that time that by not capitalizing the term I gave it less significance in my own research as if it were less of an identity. In truth it is a major identity that needs acknowledgement and honest analysis.

Even now as I write, I am learning to more fully understand Whiteness as a tangible thing and identity even when those who are White do not identify with it as a race but mention specific ethnic group when describing who they are. The largest lesson of this is for me to appreciate the truth that part of understanding myself is understanding others in the context of the community in which I exist and that despite cultural clashes there are countless cultural intersections between Blackness and Whiteness. Moreover, out of respect for the identities of others I speak of Whiteness and being White as legitimate and recognizable parts of our American fabric and not the abstract oxygen that surrounds us in this tank we call America. This is particularly true because the pride I hold in being Black objects to the conscious inhalation of Whiteness, an identity that even if I tried, I could never attain but only imitate in a process of self-denial and identity suicide.

over the past few weeks when i’ve returned home i looked down at the rug and didn’t see its meaning. the small dark stains that were created by crumbs of dirt that fell from the shoes of a few guests and the dust that would otherwise accumulate in some other section of my large stained concrete floor sat prominently on that rug like signs of aging and abuse. it served its purpose and now its gone. the room feels cleaner and surprisingly the room feels bigger. its like a large space has opened up for something new and not some new item to take the place of that rug but for new possibilities.

it’s funny how we bring people and things into our lives and even though we may not acknowledge it initially there’s a part of us that may recognize at some point in our relationship that that person or that thing will not be there forever and not always because it will cease to exist but because our desire to have it and the illusion that we need it will diminish with time and with change. the feeling of relief i am experiencing in this moment is something i did not expect to feel. it was just a damn rug, right? no… it was a distraction, a waste of space and time, an artifact from some past chapter that has since set sail, some item that was cool and meaningful at some point but not at this point.

i think now about all of the other things i have that are just there because that’s where they landed and not because i’m working to keep them there. they say less is more and i don’t necessarily agree but i will say that for me in this moment less is best. before this summer ends i’m committed to doing some spring cleaning and not because i have my seasons mixed up, but because i need to let go of some dusty, old, unnecessary rugs so that i have the best chance to spring forward in this new and constantly evolving me. i hope my trash is someone else’s treasure because i’m searching for my treasure at the end of this rainbow and i don’t need trash blocking my view.

i did well in high school and college and thought that being a lawyer was the only path one could take to be an advocate for justice and so i decided my career path. i joined teach for america because i believed in and still believe in its mission. i did well in my classroom and graduate school while applying to law schools. i sat back and graciously welcomed offers law schools made to me with pretty scholarships and shiny packages that momentarily distracted me from the gigantic investment i was about to take because its the risk i said i would take ten years ago before i knew who i’d be today.

no one told me to pause and even if they did i wasn’t listening because success is waiting for me so why not just race full speed toward it, right? wrong… truth is, i’ve been a part of what now seems like the cookie-cutter way of being and performing the role of the young black urban male who’s persevered in the face of racism, classicism, and patriarchy. i’ve been a token, i’ve been someone’s success story, someone’s poster child, someone’s prized possession because i’ve beaten the odds and look at me now. i have degrees from institutions of higher education and i’ve been eager to grab another one while the fire’s still hot so i can add some more abbreviations at the end of my name that scream “look at me, i made it.”

i’m twenty four and blessed… but i haven’t really experienced the world and what it has to offer. i don’t want to look back thirty years from now at a career i fell into and a path that seemed like the right one to take because it fit the natural progression of things. i don’t want to look back on my life and realize that i lived for others and not for myself. so i’m going to take risks and listen to my heart for once and define what it means to be successful for myself. i’m going to dive into me and my god and not plans full of debt without a purpose nor position in the world. i’m going to contribute to the development and well-being of me before trying to force my contribution to society in ways that are traditional and quite frankly standard. i’m going to be my own success story and let my god carry me where my wings may go.

I’ve been carrying dead-weight. Like that thing mom said years ago that hurt my feelings; that quasi relationship that  provided an empty touch warm enough to remind me I was alive; that unrequited love I had for a now dear friend who still cannot see who I am and what I possess; that “best-friend” that ultimately wore that crown with no sense of honor because all we had was time and stories from immature days but no substantive foundation to launch us into the future with each others’ best interest in mind.

Those bridges to darkness from which I came remain tethered to the strings of my heart stroking my keys at inconvenient times dredging up inconvenient truths about the scars I carry, the things I’ve seen, the hearing I once wished I would lose for no other reason than to block out the noise of life and misery.

Bridges sometimes need to be burned. Let everything that rests between my now and my then be turned to ash and the blemishes and scars be part of the larger fabric of me. My skin is woven together by stories of highs and lows holding in my color, my sex, my politics, my intellect, my ambition, my joys, my pains, my truths, my lies, my fears, my here and now…

I ain’t too heavy to carry. I ain’t too big to hold.  I ain’t too cold to love. I ain’t too dumb to see that I have the ability to release myself. I ain’t too afraid to accept my own liberation. I ain’t too religious to listen to God. I ain’t too fool to go into light with darkness in my eyes. I ain’t too educated to recognize life outside of the textbook. I ain’t too beautiful to see my ugly. I ain’t too loud to hear my own voice. I ain’t too proud to smell my own shit. I ain’t too me today to be better tomorrow.

For the past few years he’s captivated the attention of thousands apparently by sharing the experiences of Amina Arraf an openly gay woman in the Middle East who obviously faces great difficulties in the popularly homophobic region. Although, there are many men and women in this region of the world who face great challenges as cultural and political out-casts we don’t have to worry about the sufering of what woman, Amina Arraf, because she doesn’t exist!

Sources have revealed that MacMaster is in fact a 40 year old student at the University of Edinburgh in Scotland. MacMaster has released an apology and of course people are absolutely outraged. The least we can do is think about the fact that the story this 40 year old student with nothing better to do than pull at the strings of peoples’ hearts, shared with the world was actually plausible albeit false. It was believable because there is such a strong anti-gay sentiment found in every part of the world and that is what we need to be focusing on, not giving further attention to lying jackasses who operate with no regard for the impact of here words.

From high notes to low tones, her voice breaks through carefully orchestrated but still flexible and passionate beats in a remarkable dance.  I hear that dance played out over and over again in stores, clubs, local bars and even from the cars that drive through the streets of North Philly. It never seems to matter that who’s driving or enjoying the music. The British artist’s talent resonates with lovers of music from an array of backgrounds. At the age of 24 as of this Monday, I know that if she never makes another song, Adele’s 21 will ultimately earn its place on the shelves of music fans for decades to come. There is simply no sideshow entertainment that can replace the essence of good music from real artists.

If I had the option of spending my life in any other country I would decline the offer unless the country began with “United States” and ended in “America.” However, I must say that I’m not always proud with our demeanor, attitudes and practices. We do not spend time having rational debates about facts. We spend far too much time arguing over matters of opinion and finding ways to tarnish the reputation of others who disagree with us. We can’t hold our public officials accountable for their stupidity simply because many of us as voters, as citizens, behave stupidly and show no need for logical decisions to be made. It’s much easier to be king when you don’t need to make any sense.

Sure we can blame our educational system for not teaching our citizenry how to think critically, but even if we were to revamp our academic systems, we wouldn’t find the silver bullet. Education is just one part of our society, one reflection of our political and cultural values. What we need is for people to change their attitudes, we need an overall change in social relations in which people use their time and brains to improve the world around them. Far too often I see people ignoring the very gift of innovative and critical thought to settle for simple immediate propositions that are nothing more than emotional rants disguised as practical solutions and well-thought out plans. In our nation there are many fools. Foolishness exists in every country I am sure, but it isn’t this loud. Our fools love the limelight and we give it to them, allowing them to successfully manipulate the minds of future leaders and weak-minded voters.

We will make little progress and will one day be referred to as one of the great empires that collapsed as a result of stupidity and greed, unless of course we can occasionally set our emotions aside and use that large complicated organ of soft tissue beyond our skulls. The world is becoming increasingly complex and few people who remain simple will successfully function in it.

I caught a segment of an interview between Lupe and Tavis Smiley two weeks ago. As always, Lupe used the platform to discuss some pretty gut-wrenching realities, my favorite being his criticism of President Barack Obama. Unlike many observers, Lupe can recall hearing Obama’s call for change during his race toward to White House as he fervently called for us to withdraw from Iraq. Obama lost points with many voters (hello!) when in the same speech he argued that we should go into Afghanistan. (Huh?) Wait… So we’re leaving one country and instead of returning home, we’re going into another one? Oh… I see…same vehicle and driver just taking a different road. Ok…

Now I’m a realist. I’m well aware of the fact that there are “terrorists” in many nations who would love to see America buckle before the eyes of the world, which by the way it’s already doing in many respects (hi public education), however it seemed like such an awkward and awry plan to be proposed by a candidate who was promoting something called change. Well we changed…direction, but I don’t think that was the change many of us were hoping for. In any case, Lupe scores points for his criticism.

Let’s fast forward to another video clip in which Lupe discusses racism. Now this is an issue that is far more complex than I intend to explain in this forum, but I’d like to take a moment to throw some tough love and realism back at Mr. Fiasco. In the video clip available on youtube.com, called “getting rid of racism,” Lupe suggests that the only way to end racism is by closing off future generations of children to the history of racism. Don’t mention slavery, the KKK or anything that may make children aware of their differences and let them grow up in harmony. This is amusing to say the least.

In addition, he argues that we remind children of our history because of our pride. While this point is complicated, it is one worth considering. Lupe then goes on to criticize the “leadership” in the Black community. Citing Oprah’s attempt to pit  older Black figures against the youngings and their supporters over the use of the word nigga, Lupe posits that the impact was a nationally displayed separation among Blacks. Lupe is clear on his position as he says “nigga, nigga, nigga, I love the word nigga, because it represents our history and past so why abolish it?”

I personally don’t see the use of the word nigga as purely generational issue. At the age of 23, I do not use nor condone the use of the word myself. More importantly in regards to his proposition concerning history, how is it that you can simultaneously propose that the only way to avoid racism is to withhold/hide history from the next generation of youth and support the use of the word nigga because it represents our history? I’m confused.

It seems to me that the problem really isn’t whether or not we teach history but rather how we teach it. Youth of all color need to be exposed to the ugliness of American history from chattel slavery to Jim Crow as well as the triumphant success of the have-nots. More importantly we need the kind of overhauling changes in our nation’s systems and policies that will bring about real economic and political equality. As an inner-city educator and social justice advocate, I understand the complexities of conversations concerning race and poverty and just as I hold elected official responsible for the errors in their reasoning, I intend to do the same for the artists I support. Sorry Lupe, but go back to the drawing board and take a closer look at your logic because it’s ill.