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by Kenya Ratcliff
On July 21, President Joe Biden, beleaguered as he undoubtedly has been by a trio of unfortunate events – a lackluster performance in his first election debate against former President Donald Trump, an attempted assassination of his rival, and contracting COVID – finally read the room and announced his decision to bow out of this year’s presidential race. To take his place, Biden announced his endorsement of his vice president, Kamala Harris. Within a week thereafter, Kamala Harris’ campaign amazingly managed to raise a record $200 million in donations and sign up 170,000 volunteers.
The night Biden stepped down, in the excitement and hope of a historic nomination and possible election of the first Black and Desi (Indian) person (even as far-right Republicans furiously and immediately attacked the Republican VP candidate J.D. Vance’s wife, Usha Vance, also of Indian descent, just for existing), as well as the very first woman to our country’s presidency, I immediately thought of the seminal hip-hop album released by conscious rap legends Public Enemy in 1990, “Fear of a Black Planet.” My hope and excitement were tempered, however, by my unprecedented experience living in a housemate situation in which I have been the only Black person amongst a group of white women for the last six months. More on that later.
Back in 1990, before the internet and streaming even existed – though I was blown away by and thoroughly enjoyed hearing their most famous single “Fight the Power,” accompanied by a visual of actress Rosie Perez frenetically dancing in the opening frames of Spike Lee’s equally important film, “Do the Right Thing” – I was a broke high school student, so I didn’t actually buy the album back then. None of my crew of friends had it either, and I was the only one allowed to regularly have friends over to listen to music and hang out, so I settled for watching Public Enemy videos on MTV and listening to their songs on the radio. Admittedly, at the time we were nerdy alterna chicks who rarely listened to or even purchased rap records, preferring R&B, acid jazz, world music, grunge, punk, and alternative rock and pop. However, Public Enemy was too compelling to ignore, and you could dance to their music while hearing thoughtful lyrics that were a refreshing departure from much of what was popular then.
As I scrolled through triumphant, jubilant memes, posts and livestreams from Black (and white/POC) celebrities and regular folk alike on the night Biden made his announcement, I was determined to listen to the entire “Fear of a Black Planet” album for what was likely the very first time. I marveled at lyrics such as these from the actual single “Fear of a Black Planet,” which tackle the ever-present fear and abhorrence many have for race-mixing in this country:
Excuse us for the news
You might not be amused
But did you know white comes from Black
No need to be confused
Excuse us for the news
I question those accused
Why is this fear of Black from White
Influence who you choose?
Many are still unaware that Public Enemy, when quizzed about their inspiration for developing the album, cited as a direct influence Dr. Frances Cress Welsing’s book “Color Confrontation and Racism (White Supremacy),”written and self-published in 1970. While Dr. Cress Welsing would go on to propose controversial theories about the origins of white people that unfortunately mirrored the fear and disgust she attributed to them, she undeniably provided a blueprint for what remains an enduring, influential work of art.
Listening for the first time in years to “911 Is a Joke” brought to mind the bipartisan outrage that ensued post-assassination attempt on Trump, when it was revealed that the Secret Service had not adequately secured the area the gunman was able to access, even 20 minutes after Trump rally participants alerted local police to the would-be assassin’s presence on the roof of the warehouse he used to focus his target. The thought occurred to me that for once, Donald Trump was experiencing what Blacks experience every day in their interactions with law enforcement and first responders – a lag in service and unprofessional, lackadaisical behavior. I distinctly remember the defensive reactions and backlash to this song at the time from politicos, emergency responders and others who disputed that neighborhood, race or income level made any difference in response times or professionalism, despite a plethora of evidence to the contrary.
Accompanied by these protestations were the usual attempts to discredit the messenger-griots in Public Enemy (particularly Flavor Flav, who took the lead on this song, or Professor Griff, who’d already been jettisoned from the group after the release of the group’s second album, 1988’s “It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back,” due to ill-advised anti-Semitic comments he’d made). Nevertheless, Flavor Flav’s humorous-but-still-dead-serious take on the travails of the unfortunate folks forced to wait interminably for inadequate emergency assistance resonated:
But late 911 was a joke ’cause they always jokin’
They the token to your life when it’s croakin’
They need to be in a pawn shop on a
911 is a joke we don’t want ’em
I call a cab ’cause a cab will come quicker
The doctors huddle up and call a flea flicker
The reason that I say that ’cause they
Flick you off like fleas
They be laughin’ at ya while you’re crawlin’ on your knees
Which brings me back to the situation I alluded to earlier, in which I found myself living in what appeared to be a particularly comfortable, enviable housemate arrangement in East Sacramento County, only blocks from the beautiful American River and Parkway. I was thrilled to encounter four deer roaming through the yard the sunny February day I moved in, and even more entranced by the history of the lovely 120-year-old renovated house, whose builder was grandson to the builder of our next-door neighbor’s house, a founder of the community.
The situation seemed to perfectly align with my desire for a short term month-to-month arrangement as I prepared to become a digital nomad and fulfill my dreams of travel to places such as Costa Rica, Ghana, Portugal and more. I can’t deny my motivation is largely in disgust at the protracted political and socioeconomic inequities that persist in this country, the lack of civility in public discourse, and the evaporation of any notion that I might retire comfortably in the state I love – or any other in the U.S. I’d care to live in – without winning the lottery or marrying rich.
After about a week or two of living alone in the house, I was joined by a bald-but-spiky-wig-wearing, portly 65-year-old newcomer, a retired Postal Service carrier from the Denver, Colorado, area named Wanda, whose facial expression, uptight demeanor and standoffishness upon encountering me for the first time told plainly that race is an issue for her. Her apparent discomfort at sharing a house with a Black woman was a telling precursor to months of juvenile passive-aggressive antics, attempts to dominate me (silly) or dismiss my preferences (no matter how trivial), bizarre harassment of me and my guests in common areas, toddler-like possessiveness about the use of the dining table, and a clear case of obsessive compulsive disorder, which manifested itself in strange midnight banging on my door to harangue me about items I’d put in the recycling bin, or discovering my fruit I’d just bought had been thrown out without a word to me simply because she did not like the fruit basket to be placed on the kitchen counter, or discarding the landlord-provided cookware for those renting furnished rooms because it wasn’t brand new, despite having her own cookware to use.
My repeated complaints to the landlord only gained any traction when Wanda made the mistake of moving or discarding items he’d temporarily stored in another new tenant’s room without a word to him or request for permission. She operated as though the house solely belonged to her. As soon as new white tenants moved in – another retired lady from the Bay Area and a 20-something Air Force Reservist/EMT working with EMR I unfortunately found myself sharing a bathroom with – she did her level best to not only bend over backwards to ensure their comfort and support their preferences in a manner she’d never bothered with on my behalf, but to discredit me to them in every way possible.
It was quite clear that racism rather than a mere clash of personalities was her motivation when she suggested during a heated conversation about house rules that I would have gotten violent with her (!) if the other retired housemate was not a witness. When I responded snarkily that she was at least 6 feet tall (I’m 5’3”) and outweighed me by about 200 pounds, so could just sit on me if I had the audacity to attack her, she had the nerve to complain with great outrage and heaving of bosom that I’d insulted her. I pointed out the hypocrisy of this in short order, and called out her obvious racism, since she was not only literally towering over me in a threatening manner when making the claim, but also had no evidence whatsoever that I had any violent tendencies, and was using shared racial characteristics with our new housemates to imply my differing skin color itself was enough evidence to place me under suspicion.
Her efforts proved effective, because despite copious evidence that I was being subjected to ongoing, thinly-veiled racist harassment and hostility by this malignant narcissist nut, the 20-something decided in short order that she too would take up Miss Colorado’s cause. I learned later that the Colorado retiree was likely hacking other tenants’ devices on the shared wifi network, and sharing our unflattering chats about her crazy antics with Miss 20-something, which motivated her to pile on me as well.
Once her retired buddy was forced out of the house, this EMT and public servant – well-trained in sanitary practices and the dangers of ignoring them – upped the ante, leaving feces, urine and blood on and around the toilet in our shared bathroom. Even as I write this, only a few days from moving out for my own sanity (and to bring down my skyrocketing blood pressure, which shocked my doctor at a recent visit), her blood has been smeared along the rim of our tub and on our shower curtain for three days, like some primitive declaration of war in antiquity. The dichotomy of seeing Alice Walker’s “The Color Purple” and Maya Angelou’s “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings” included in this young woman’s nascent book collection, proudly displayed in the living room amid her racist, passive-aggressive antics, is an inadvertent explication of modern day white supremacist gaslighting, the likes of which I never imagined I’d be seeing up close and personal in one of the most diverse counties in America.
When I calmly indicated to her that she’d left blood on the tub and asked her to clean it up, she first denied it was even there — as if I was making it up — then refused to look at it when invited, then half-admitted it by saying “I’m a paramedic,” as if that somehow absolved her from cleaning up after herself in common areas, as dictated by house rules she’d agreed to when she moved in. She then proved herself every bit the stereotypical Miss Ann/Becky/Karen when this supposed public servant suddenly announced, “I’m going to call the police on you.” I calmly responded that she should go ahead, as I stood 10 feet away and inquired as to what charge she’d be making, which clearly stumped her and stunned her into momentary silence.
I asked her whether this proposed misuse of police resources (by a public servant — my taxes literally pay her bills) meant that we should call her Karen. She managed a brave “Fuck off” that was meant to be authoritative and threatening, but reminded me vaguely of the Powerpuff Girls. After stifling a giggle, I challenged her to “make me.” She did not rise to the occasion, however, and seemed to abandon her threat of weaponizing the police against a Black person who had done her no harm, nor even threatened her, just asked her to act like an adult instead of a petulant teenager.
Back to “Fear of a Black Planet” and Kamala Harris, unwittingly the current specter of all that is so very wrong about the turn the country has taken in certain quarters, namely a significantly large contingent of Trump supporters. I want to offer my thanks to you, Reader, for indulging my convoluted musings up to this juncture, and promise you that I am finally getting to the point.
I kept vainly searching for evidence, while listening to this musical polemic, that the hellscape described – in the blasts of sound bites, speeches, funky samples, militant calls to action and blistering commentary on the enduring hypocrisy of those white liberals, progressives and even conservatives whose actions don’t match their words or their carefully cultivated public personas – had changed so very much for the better in the last three decades since the album was released, that it would sound like a quaint reminder of a time long gone by. Instead, it solidified and proved what I already knew in my heart and couldn’t deny after first-hand experience.
Much of what we tout as significant change or progress in achieving true equality for Americans of nonwhite descent, especially those of African descent, is mere symbolism and slick marketing. The fear of being outed as a supremacist is seemingly far greater than the conviction that said supremacist ideology is inherently fallacious, at odds with science, detrimental to society and deserving of utter contempt.
This is where we as a society have failed, and Black people especially continue to pay for our nation’s collective shortcomings with poor health, losing our sense of security or sanity, our homes and property, our wealth, and often our very lives every day. The July 6 death of Sonya Massey, who made the mistake of calling 911 to report a possible intruder, only to be shot in the head by a police officer under a suspiciously contrived pretext — holding a pot of boiling water from the stove — and then was deprived of medical aid that might have saved her, is a yet another example of this.
Meanwhile the perpetrators of these outrages == especially police and first responders – rarely experience lasting repercussions for their actions or the lack thereof. Even younger generations continue to be infected, indoctrinated. The vigorous effort to ban anti-racist books, dance, films and art, as well as any historical or even fictional accounts of how systemic racism has spread its tentacles through every facet of our society, are designed to perpetuate fear as a motivating factor in robbing people of African descent of their dignity, and literally anything else that can be stolen.
Nevertheless, we have evidence that demonstrates, if nothing else, that the very tools being used to maintain the status quo – like the darkest, dumbest corners of the internet via social media, podcasts and blogs – can just as easily be used to transform it, to engage young people whose minds we are still capable of saving in the fight, and offer a kind of hope and faith in our resilience despite all.
So, in short, 911 Is STILL a Joke – whether we look at our country as a whole or on a local, personal level. Trump’s reaction to his near-assassination was not to ask after the dying man who took a bullet meant for Trump, but to literally mirror the Black Power salute (!) for a photo op before being whisked away by the late-reacting Secret Service, the height of irony.
My own encounter at my home with an Air Force Reservist EMT attempting to terrorize me by using police resources as a big stick is just a sad microcosm of what is happening nationally and illustrates just how “Fear of a Black Planet” is a devastating, still very relevant and topical commentary on how little progress has been made.
Kamala Harris‘ mere existence at the top of the Democratic ticket exacerbates the climate of irrational fear that consumes the enemies of equality. We must not falter in our efforts to counter their divisive, insidious influence.
The fact that Kamala Harris’ position in the presidential race is so very frightening in certain corners is directly proportionate to the substantial jolt of confidence and hope she offers to those who envision and fight for justice and equality, as Public Enemy exhorted us to do, untiringly and without ceasing, until the future that absolutely must come to pass finally does.
Kenya Ratcliff, an entrepreneur, is a former intern and Associate Editor of the SF Bay View. She is also the youngest child of publisher Willie Ratcliff.
