Trouble in Black Paradise: Catastrophic Legacy Worshiping the “New World” Politics of Saving Souls

By Fundi

National anti gay marriage laws join Californias voter approved Proposition 8 challenging America. Afro-American Christians launch from sidelined shadows hitting the streets, vocally backing these measures. Intense Afro denunciation of gays capture media coverage; angry images fuel Americas sensational discourse stagetheyve become the new self-appointed representatives of global religious advocacy.
Afro supporters justify opposition citing standard historical verbiage. Claimed is that no evidence of sacredly integrated gay life, or gay marriage resonates from antiquity. Intense condemnation of gays professes compassion, not hate.
A white gay mainstream, shocked and baffled, wonders in their eyes how so-called fellow Civil Rights seeking groups could in turn condemn them. Afro religious though, vehemently reject any claim to shared Civil Rights predicament made by gays.
Trouble In Black Paradise tackles this entanglement head on. Highly volatile situations are fleshed-out in a way unprecedented by impassioned literary presentation. Now, a man steeped in Civil Rights tradition through Southern Baptist family initiates a sensitive, intimate dialogue with broader Afro-Christian communities.
Fundi is an educator, historian and social/cultural activist of 38 years; concurrently hes been a practitioner of Buddhism and an openly gay Black man coming out in the pre AIDS era.
Afro-Americans and the gay mainstream do not live in a vacuum. Troubling civil nuances impacting each cultural phenomenon reveals a strangely unused bridge. Here, decades of cutting edge social/anthropological research is finely organized, enlightening each side about one anotherheroes, villains, institutions (uplifting and disingenuous) and media, all are laid bare.
Exposes confront negligible Civil Rights participation by an entrenched Afro-Christian establishment; white gays in parallel light reveal extreme political/multiethnic disconnect. Racism and homophobia are intertwined aspectsinexplicably tying bothand find rigorous review.
Trouble In Black Paradise holds unforeseen surprises with a shocking conclusion. Fasten yourself for a beginning-to-end rollercoaster ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481707268

Fundi

Jennifer C. Robinson was born in El Paso, Texas. Being the child of a military father, Jennifer moved often with her parents and sister. She has lived in Texas, Oklahoma and Germany and has visited many states and countries before settling in Americus, Georgia when she was 12. Jennifer graduated with honors from Sumter County Comprehensive High School and received her bachelor’s in History from Georgia Southwestern State University. She plans on continuing her Master’s program in Marriage and Family Therapy. Jennifer resides in Americus, GA with her children Trabian, Tyler and Jade and enjoys reading, writing, cooking and sports.

Book preview

TROUBLE IN

BLACK PARADISE

Kalahari%20San%20people%2c%20source%20of%20global%20humanity..tif

Catastrophic Legacy Worshiping

the New World Politics of Saving Souls

Text, Illustrations and Editing

by

Fundi

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2013 by Fundi. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/09/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0728-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0727-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0726-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013900830

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Table of Contents

Illustrations

Introduction

Prologue The People in the Colored Glass

Part I

The Battle To Crack The Blinders

Chapter 1 Distress Call

Part II

An Ancient Darkness Bares New Light

Chapter 2 A View From The Cradle Of Civilization

Part III

The Voice That Came Like Thunder

Chapter 3 Unexplained Phenomenon And Milestone Discoveries In The Modern World

Chapter 4 The Controversial Life Of King James VI And I

Part IV

The Divvying Up Of Lost Souls

Chapter 5 The Highest Paid Position Attainable By A Pre Civil Rights Era Working Class Black Man

Chapter 6 The Biblical Trail Sails Out From Ancient Palestine Into The New World

Chapter 7 Defiant Risk Takers, The Dazzling Charismatic And Startling Self-Help Campaigns

Chapter 8 Happily Ensnared By A Relentless White Make-Over Industry

Part V

The Gifts That Would Change Earth’s Destiny

Chapter 9 The Key Element Of Historical Knowledge

Chapter 10 Uncloaking The Discarded And Mysterious Philosophical East

Part VI

Of Heroes, Heroines And The Woefully Misguided

Chapter 11 Dedicated Rebels Protect Human Integrity And Risk It All

Chapter 12 Impudent Moralizers, Ill-conceived Mavericks And Glorified Legal Setbacks

Part VII

A Coalition The Likes Of Which This World Has Never Seen

Chapter 13 All Paths Lead To The Original Eve

Chapter 14 The Bible As A Weapon In The War On Gays

Chapter 15 A Demon Lurking In The Closet Of Mainstream Gay Organizing

Part VIII

Designs For A New Land Of Innovative Warriors

Chapter 16 Sexual Power Honed As A Tour De Force In The New World

Chapter 17 Black Lesbians And Gays Rock The Frontlines Of Historic Civil Rights Battles

Chapter 18 Threads Of Mystery Lodged At The Seat Of Human Time

Chapter 19 Fighting To Settle The Vast Gay Frontier

Chapter 20 A Field Of Freshly Fueled Awakening Warriors

Epilogue Space Ship Earth On Par For A Reckoning Course

Acknowledgments

Selected Bibliography

Fundi (Biography)

The premiere companionship book to Trouble In Black Paradise:

Moving On The Road

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To A Man-Song Sanctuary

Poetry, Illustrations

and Editing

by Fundi.

Foreword by Tom Nolan.

Published by

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Dedication

For the late Black Gay humanity loving warriors

Ron Grayson and Eric Shepard;

and for the late

Stephen Roake,

a beautiful progressive

White Gay Angel.

Trouble In Black Paradise is a dialogue told in story form. The narrative includes both autobiographical elements and a sharing of historical events—items influenced by persons, places and things. History shared in this effort has been more thoroughly documented elsewhere and discussions about much of it already takes place in many arenas, yet as much information has long been in the public domain (obscured and obfuscated though it may be) this presentation is told in the author’s own words and presents his own commentated assessments. A suggested bibliography has been included both for the convenience of readers who wish to more extensively explore certain topics and to celebrate the brilliant efforts of other diligent, invested authors (these being but a few among a much broader cast)—many of whom still remain woefully unsung.

Illustrations

Olmec Gigantic Afro stone head and small carving from

800 B.C. Mexico

Afro-goddess Isis presides over the spiritual godhead pantheon

Cave Four at the Dead Sea’s Qumran ruins

Irrepressible Father Jealous Divine

Bishop Sweet Daddy Grace

Afro Dravidian 2500 B.C. relics from India and Pakistan’s

founding civilization

Fannie Lou Hamer Civil Rights Lioness

Kalahari San people, source of global humanity

Upper Volta’s Dogon People exhibit renowned masquerading

and astounding astronomic accuracy

Oscar Micheaux pioneer Black filmmaker.

Harry Hay the Lavender Lion.

Rustin With King In Watts after the 1965 riots

Lorraine Hansberry, social activist and first successful

Black female Broadway playwright

Introduction

My father hated Southern Baptist preachers. From the time I could comprehend the living world around me with the simplest intelligence (as the youngest and only child of my parent’s union) until I was 23—when he passed at the age of 79—a notion was repeatedly pounded in my head: there was not one Baptist preacher known to him that he trusted.

The situation troubled my dad monumentally because he was a deeply religious man. A native of Ft. Worth, Texas and born in 1898, Prezzie H. Wright, Sr. was raised in the Baptist faith by deeply religious parents. Immersed in Protestant traditions he found his spiritual calling early, knowing that sharing the Word would have some place of operation throughout his functioning life.

The family did hold the spirit to encourage (and instill) an investment in collectively combating racism, pushing to make greater opportunities available for their kids. Acquiring a higher-level education was difficult for Blacks of his era, yet he managed to achieve something akin to high school level. Young Prezzie’s strong attraction to religious ideals brought an extended community family hopeful excitement, but those who expected his calling to follow the standard blind faith conventionality were in for a big surprise.

The Baptist preacher’s searing reputation for being opportunistic charlatans had long predated my father’s birth. In his eyes this flagrantly demonstrated behavior was greatly at odds with the sense of glorious human spirit connection, seemingly oozing through Biblical pages, which taunted him: he sensed a celebration of practical salvation within the texts, but something in the time’s promoted direction seemed amiss. Broader resources of the day slipped through the cracks to greet his keen eye, finding leverage with a spirit independent enough to question, then challenge interpretations.

When all was said and done common sense told young Prezzie that severe alterations of a radical Palestinian savior’s originally documented intent had brazenly taken place: the new directional elements seemed tailor-made to suit the corrupt position clung to by these preachers; a Black populace inadvertently (and vociferously) supported this corruption with an often willful ignorance, being dedicated to comfortable complacency. Here, Prezzie knew his calling was to become a daring and adept religious scholar, not yet another preacher among their endless superficial multiplying numbers.

Tracing the earliest alterations back into antiquity dad concluded that it was the emperor Constantine who was the major pivotal culprit—he loathed Constantine and never failed to rigorously castigate him, detailing his specific Biblical alterations with every conversational opportunity.

Meanwhile being the apple of my father’s eye brought tremendous emotional exhilaration and solidified our profound closeness. Dad was extremely affectionate, warm and tender—solidly transferring those exceptional male tendencies to me—yet a violation of good manners, human integrity (or etiquette instilled through conscientious social values) swiftly unleashed a stern but compassionate lion. In turn innumerable excursions to fish, camp, enjoy professional ballpark events and general family outings found this one right at the helm by his side; invariably a boastful claim-to-fame pitching for Oklahoma in the historic Negro Leagues would arise, heightened by a grand assertion that he actually beat the notorious Satchel Paige—a tale never failing to provoke everyone’s astonishment, chided by chuckles. Often a surrogate for my best friends—whose fathers were agonizingly absentee—hindsight makes clear the crippling emptiness felt by them, which he helped to greatly offset.

But I’ll never forget the intense thrill of watching my father launch into his animated style of setting the historic religious record straight, firing-off his well researched philosophical rebuttals. Preachers astutely avoided stepping into that heated zone-of-no-return. And if anyone dared justify or defend scriptural interpretive status-quos, including such issues as the stringently demanded tithes he thought to be exorbitantly raised beyond Biblical suggestion, they quickly backed-down (or after exhausting the short breath of their position abruptly changed the subject.)

Blind faith had no solid back-up and was no match for his methodical detailing of documented Biblical events, or listing the historic players involved in both the positive and destructive influencing of history—practicality through cause and effect (seeing scripture’s actual purpose as enhancing humanity and refining the living environment in which we dwell) was the center station of his tour de force.

Dad blistered (in the blink of an eye) someone’s use of reverence as an expectedly given title for misguided, gluttonous preachers—berating that non-questioning accommodation; he ambitiously denounced annual lineups of lavish personal anniversary bashes bestowed upon preachers at the expense of struggling congregations; and their justifying a complacent inaction with regards to challenging a system’s transgressions against humanity made him figuratively spit fire.

The seventh grade Sunday School class he taught provided the perfect platform to judiciously off-set volumes of religious standards already shaping impressionable minds. Elsewhere should these subjects not come up he was not dissuaded: patience guaranteed there’d be perfect timing to set their annotative place on a dialogue’s general social table.

Such is the spirit, focus and drive instilled within from my father’s legacy, to further construct a scholarly based picture of humanity’s spiritual/religious inheritance. Coming into my own age of bringing significant pieces of the puzzle to an incomplete whole—and with standard, as well as provocative, unconventional resource tools—thirty-seven years of research have finally cumulated to enter an unprecedented era’s spotlight.

Multiple calls-to-arms inspire the timing of this book’s epic efforts. Social segments, formerly voiceless and relegated to background undercurrents (bound inside muting shadows) now filter through hard earned cracks, demanding an equal setting at daylight’s platform of recognition—currently they jockey with others who have already finagled their own place, but who still feel slighted themselves. Ignorance of one another remains thick, a dynamic continuously stacking on all sides (ironically obscuring an agenda’s commonality that runs deep); adversarial positions only waste precious intellectual arsenal that would otherwise be highly effective in achieving hard sought justice (a collective opportunity for unfettered living that is truly justified.)

In these pages unparalleled opportunity is at hand: cries of confusion and anger (currently ringing about the streets) will find mystery solving answers on an often compelling, yet continuously thrilling historical ride—one that offers surprising angles gliding along a combination of what are probably never before traveled tracks. Here, the reader will also see certain literary license being employed: the word black is capitalized when referring to a people, indicating its validity as a global ethnic identifier (keeping in the spirit of a growing Afro-editorial popularity); the term Civil Rights is capitalized, emphasizing its significance at the heart of this effort; quotation marks highlight certain words and terms to place special emphasis on the need to not inadvertently run past them, giving cause for more substantial absorption of their concept (which yields a glimpse of their broader impact within culturally relative contexts presented); and to help keep a mega volume of social/historical information from being too scientifically convoluted, or scholastically dry as it could easily be (including that which examines the mechanisms of spiritual phenomenon potently activating through startled lives) earthy Afro linguistic style weaves itself into play; this compliments a specific underlying goal of nurturing down-to earth dialogue with broader based Blacks (whose relative comprehension needs and valid linguistic style are generally rejected from such dialogues.)

One obvious goal is to spark excitement and interest in better understanding the fascinating journey that brings humanity to this unprecedented time and place. Such a chronicle just might become a useful handbook for convenient reference: steering potent questions in the right direction; more sharply honing-in on where the best results may lurk when knocking on doors—especially should one have found fresh desire to leave the sidelines and take a history making place (or continue striving to make their own much more effective mark in the equation.)

Prime adrenaline fields are set to rumble, stoked with the thrill of incredibly electrifying finds. It is hoped that the reader truly experiences a glorious magnetism, steadily drawing them through these pages into what could be considered a mostly untapped adventure.

Fundi.

Prologue

The People in the Colored Glass

The room was quite large in my mind’s eye and I was certain that I had been in spaces far bigger than this—but gosh! It was filled to overflowing capacity! We sat crammed in the heat somewhere towards the front and I’m bored practically to tears:

I’m hot ma! When we gonna’ go?

Sh-h-h-h, she replied as she lifted me up off of the wooden seat onto her lap and began fanning me vigorously. You mustn’t disturb the service to the Lord in God’s house.

As she gently rocked me side-to-side I press the boundaries of distraction one more time.

I know how old I am. I proudly say. I’m four years old!

Yes you are honey. she replied. Now sit still and behave and show the Lord some respect.

I gaze out into the room and try to entertain myself with the visual panorama of images there. Like me all of the room’s occupants are Black Americans of African descent—although at the time I certainly wouldn’t have called them that. The skin tones ranged from almost yellow-white, to cinnamon red-brown (again like me), to the deeper rich blue-black hues on the melanin spectrum. It was literally a slice of the familiar figures that came right out of my predominantly Black neighborhood which reflected my own family’s illustrated spectrum, and that did bring me a slight sense of comfort.

The energy felt here, and some of the images in this room kind of confused me though—and even slightly disturbed me. A significant number of people ranged between middle age and young adulthood, and thankfully to me, children of various ages were with them. But many here were old, very old, and their own compelling gestures added to the swaying and fanning that rippled across the warm atmosphere. Hard, deep lines cascading across slightly sunken faces periodically expressed themselves in the language of moan-speak: Lord have mercy! they would cry. Soon I’m coming home to heaven and leave this sinful earth behind. Soon Lord, we shall be free!

Mama had long ago told me about that horrible thing called sin. I think that when I watch TV with my daddy we see lots of sin—especially when we see colored people like us marching outside of stores and restaurants because they can’t get in, or getting attacked by the police with dogs who keep them out of certain schools—or those places they call voting polls. And when we hear about other colored kids who get bombed in those southern churches, my daddy always says, God! It’s a sin that there are no Civil Rights laws to protect us!

My head now swims in a pool of conflict and words filled with anxiety echo within: I sure don’t want to be left behind on no horrible planet! But then, mama and daddy have also shown me so many wonderful things here: amusement parks, swimming pools, movie theaters—and the thrill of building campfires during overnight outings in the woods. Gosh! I thought I was just getting started with exploring all the fun stuff to do on this place called earth.

My gaze drifts along the room’s walls. The beauty of the large vertically elongated stain glass windows works to settle me and my young but highly attentive fancy for artistry is at peace—and briefly held captive. The images that are set within them seem to come alive in the sparkle of the early Sunday afternoon sun—images of men and women in long flowing colorful gowns, sometimes surrounded by sheep in rustic settings with majestic mountains and flowers, and sometimes set in villages that appear to be out of the olden days. Many of the people have huge white wings protruding from their backs, or golden rays shooting from their heads, or both, and they all look down upon us with somber expressions—seemingly from all of the room’s angles.

Who are the people in the windows? I again ask my mom.

They are the holy people. she replies.

I decide that the winged people are my favorite. They easily help me to detach myself from this room’s boring activities and I flow through endless daydream scenes that have me soaring with them through the skies.

But that man and his droning voice never fails to quickly bring me back.

On the large platform that rises ominously in front of us an older man stands at the center addressing the crowd. He must be highly important because he’s got just about everybody all stirred up. To his right sits a row of women all in white. To his left a row of men, mostly in very dark suits. Behind them several rows of both men and women are seated. All are bedecked in matching blue robes with gold satin neck bands and they are so numerous that they spread all the way across a large area totally filling the back section.

Just like the women in white and the people in robes, the men in the dark suits vary in their ages. Many of these visually striking men are young adults, but most appear to fit within a range that gradually runs from those who are middle-aged to the very elderly.

As I look at some of the men up there on stage, as well as throughout the room, I get a strange and interesting tingling-like sensation. When I think about it, it’s exactly the same kind of feeling I get when I see two people who kiss openly and passionately in the park, or out on the street, or in the dark corners at my teenage relative’s parties that I sometimes sneak into—and especially on television. It’s pretty obvious to me that there’s a big celebration going on with this thing that always gets me to tingling so strongly.

Soon, my schoolyard friends would bashfully but excitedly inform me that it definitely has everything to do with the taboo thing grown-ups call sex. Whoa! And even though my encounters with these public situations are plentiful enough, I always only see a man engaging in it with a woman.

One thing sure rings clear to me though: it’s fun and even delightful to imagine myself celebrating in scenes with those men, hugging and kissing and being affectionate, while we enjoy the pleasures of just doing life’s simple daily things.

My momma says that when I grow up I’ll be able to freely celebrate too, after I get married to some nice young lady. Although, when I look at the women, I somehow don’t feel that same way at all. Often, I get lost in inner thoughts that have me constantly banging my head about wondering why, but I dare not ask anyone about that! I’ve heard those awful comments that people have made about two men or two women who show those kinds of feelings with each other—they get cursed by god and suffer terrible things on earth, as well as after they die. I sure don’t want that to happen to me!

Hovering high on the wall above the people on stage sits a huge painting of a man that also distracts me, as he appears to be in absolute agony. His gaze rises upward into the light as the blood flows down his face and neck from a nasty sticker patch all wrapped around his head. Blood flows from his hands and feet where huge nails are clearly impaled, and it also runs from a gash that slashes across his side. Looking at him, I’m reminded of some scenes from my favorite horror movies and the image in many ways kind of gives me the creeps.

I hate having to sit endlessly listening to that man who always totally commands the crowd, as his demanding presence again quickly vies for my attention. The more he speaks, the more I writhe and squirm in my mother’s lap. The way he starts out is so agonizingly slow and unanimated, yet the grown-ups seem to think that what he says is so special. Slowly, as can be expected though, his manner builds to that of frantically shouting and he dances and screams all across the stage.

Wow! Some of the people up there rush to his side as if something disastrous might happen to him and the room itself comes alive in a frenzied response. Now, that’s more like it!

The loud and persistent guttural voice ushering from a mournful women somewhere on stage pierces the air at select moments in the action: oh yes Jesus! is her repeated cry. I frantically look around the room trying to locate Jesus, as other women here and there literally start falling out into the aisles.

People suddenly rush to them, begin briskly fanning and then quickly cart them off to the back room where I can see that they are being attended to.

Ma! What’s wrong with them? I inquire with great concern in the midst of all the excitement.

They’re O.K. son. she quietly whispers. They’ve just been struck by the spirit of the Holy Ghost.

Here, I really start shifting and again think nervously as I flash on more scenes from those scary movies: I sure hope that ghost doesn’t strike me!

Suddenly, the low but steadily rising sound of the organ makes its presence, signaling the end of this phase of service. The people in blue robes all stand and my favorite part finally begins. Confidently, I know that it will all soon be over but I can still hardly wait.

The soloist steps to the front and I lay back against my mother’s breast with a renewed air of relaxation—gradually, all begin to sing.

Ma? I ask. Is that man dancing up there Jesus?

No babe. she says. That man is the preacher, the right hand man of God.

Then where is God?

He is in Heaven. she replied.

Is that his picture up there all nailed up on that wall?

No. she says. God has no visible form that we can see. That is his son Jesus. God sent Jesus down here so that he could die to save mankind from the evil of this earth. If we believe in God and ask him for forgiveness, then we can go to heaven when we die.

Why do we need to be forgiven? I ask.

It’s a long story honey, but we were all born here in evil. This earth is evil and of sin. If we don’t ask God for forgiveness then we will suffer in hell with the devil for eternity instead of going up to heaven to be with God when we die. You don’t want to be left behind with the devil do you?

Oh, no! I quickly reply.

But still not quite satisfied I ask, "Why are we evil ma? Why must we die to be saved?"

Hush now son! she replied. The service will soon be over and we can talk then. Now sit still and respect the house of the Lord.

I look back up at the image of Jesus hovering over the room in blood and agony, and wonder what had happened to god’s son. I look around at the images of the people in the colored glass, then back to Jesus, and one thing firmly stands clear: they do not look like any of the people sitting in this room. They are all white people and we are all Coloured folks. They are the Holy Ones and we are of sin.

I think inwardly and determine that the white people who dominate our TV screens must be the holy people too. Along with the whites who come to collect money for our bills, and who teach my older relatives in our predominantly Coloured schools, and who own our community stores, and who live in those far away neighborhoods in those huge pretty homes sitting in spectacular yards with servants who are Coloured like us—they must be the Holy Ones.

I wish that I could have been born white, I think to myself. "Then I wouldn’t have to die and go to heaven. Me and my family could be holy too, right here on earth.

Part I

The Battle To

Crack The Blinders

Chapter 1

Distress Call

It has been 53 years since this author sat in that Baptist church in San Diego, California pondering the relationship between the realm of the Holy Spirit and we who live here on earth. For a short while the answers that one received to the questions above were just enough to satisfy one’s childhood curiosity—unsettling as those answers would be.

But somewhere along the way a child’s vigorous curiosity was slowly fading because the standard explanations just didn’t make sense—too many things just didn’t seem to jive.

By the adolescent years a dark hovering cloud loaded with emotional un-resolve (and growing social frustration) steadily closed in—it threatened to totally smother the enthusiasm for learning and life.

A totally unexpected phenomenon though, eventually changed everything:

At about the time when those pivotal early young adult years stretched into angry blossom, one silent rescue signal gradually found its own muster. This inner pulse initiated itself, somehow breaching stormy confusion and pain to glisten around the stem of its unique, utterly unforeseen arrival; the genesis (for what should already have long been a soul’s frantic outcry) still lay utterly undetectable—the verbal audible scream for help remained besieged, physically subdued within.

Flicking-on, as if triggered by some merciful switch the signal blazes alive! But a bad young attitude’s ever pressing scrutiny did miss this initialized mystery; immature pride holding the threat of rejection (and absolute shutdown) this time would not be a deflector. Hindsight now sees obscured evidence: living giving cosmic property—another celestial resident in the vast entangled mix—exists.

Related outer forces actively respond: they hone-in and tweak the signal’s fast budding indicator; tangible shape rapidly forms the signal’s stem into what became an internal radio-like beacon (activated to seek the perfect SOS transmittal wave.)

The silent distress call finally flares, adroitly escaping that gauntlet of emotional male barriers, riding out beyond this shortsighted youth’s troubled soul, racing to attract resolve and relief—catapulted into an uncertain universe.

A human spiritual jet stream of sorts hovered in a timely space, offering the perfect rendezvous point: it can only be described as a hook-up agent—an eminent transport awaiting that call.

Ready receptors heeded the cosmos and were in place: as luck would have it (a term reclassified in other camps as fate) they were a group of humanity’s respondents; this prepared unit anticipated at the receiving end and patiently watched, keeping their own charted hopes keenly primed; gathered were concerned and resourceful multiracial community leaders (running the social/political and educational achievement gamut)—yet, these invested persons were led by Blacks.

A distinct groundwork had been preserved by these leaders. Designed as a task to somehow reach wayward spirits their blueprint framed the prime ingredient: a marvelously expanded alternative knowledge of the historical world. Having reeled-in the source of the signal such arsenal soon provided rare opportunities for a confused young mind to access and be bathed in powerful, revitalizing personal insights.

The lens this time would do something different: it illuminated (and specifically exonerated) a Pan-African global legacy factor that had been maligned and spitefully buried; Black antiquated history itself was diligently rescued from the brink, reconstructed by the likes of these leaders—obfuscated Afro-cultural truths were now dusted-off and re-introduced for all posterity.

But who could know that conjoining an absolute rush of gushing exhilaration, blindsiding personal shock would also slam-up from within to suddenly rock a young man’s readjusting world? Those fascinating, startling new perspectives had come a flooding-in with what seemed like the speed-of-light and dealt a staggering blow—this apprentice (now thoroughly befuddled) wavered in the midst of a strange, physically dizzying intellectual conundrum.

Stepping through that recovered historical lens to bring blistering confrontations were mind-blowing social revelations. Here, the receptor leadership’s guiding goal had an added punch that was to do more than just excite and mesmerize: this tight, defensive young ego was being cleverly coaxed by them, away from the clutches of conflicted reaction—their new rationale about how to approach disturbing facts aimed to offset angry, reckless and explosive rebellion; they knew that since turmoil’s familiarity had always carried overpowering magnetism, old juvenile reactions now had to be tempted toward maintaining a position of openness and greater absorption—not held to the mercy of contentious knee-jerk deflection. Quickly things became topsy-turvy!

Interestingly enough this young man’s blindsiding shock turned out to be exactly what these mentors expected and to them its specific nature was simply explained: it is an abrupt, nerve-wracking (and sometimes paralyzing) shake-up reaction—one that is particularly caused by the intensified discovery (or sudden recognition) of historically profound social betrayal. Compounding this situation is another item: mentally absorbing such an alarming magnitude of incontrovertible public deception so quickly, causes mountainous waves of rip-roaring anger in anyone to invariably come crashing in.

The bottom-line lesson learned is that society is being summarily lied to by antagonistic, class driven mainstream institutions; brazen tradition has these institutions wrapped in a sinister cloak of false humanitarian benevolence.

It was known that most people with noble aspirations who had naively bought the standard history lessons (hoping to inject healthy transformation into humanity) did suffer the same discombobulating effect when social blinders were finally and compassionately ripped-off: minds once comfortably shrouded by sugary altruisms suddenly get the jolt of their lives—the exposing of bleak, unscrupulous and disastrous global shenanigans (to the enlightening light of day) clearly became identified as being nothing less than merciful action.

Remarkably, it is the shock part of it that actually prepares a stunned person’s turnaround stage: flailing, overreacting emotions are what must be specifically harnessed by guides who are uniquely prepped. It must be noted: mentors addressing this matter do truly navigate a delicate state of affairs—this one can tell you that in the blurry aftermath, a still quite shaken young male ego almost got sucked into terrible out-of-control momentums.

Over-the-top, head-banging frustration fueled a volatile impulse: lashing out to steer bitter resentment of that racist systemic deception in every direction; acts of random violence and reckless outer release (aimed at everyone but particularly waged against whites) realistically became a dangerous threat. In a post 1960’s apocalyptic air vengeful gratification as a solution is all one could perceive through a clouded thinking pattern (one engulfed in the expansion of raging mental dust.)

For many aspirants (made vulnerable by this awakening domain) things do not go well—such depends upon the state of one’s prior constitution and the level of training held by closely watching instructors (if one is fortunate enough to even acquire an invested guide.) Most people are not aware that this inner process can at any time trigger itself—subjective internal emotions (groomed by those social forces who cleverly peddle their blindly trusted misinformation) can become instantly jolted by looming outside factors (i.e. the shock of discovering horrific truthful knowledge) which immediately sets off rollercoaster-like conditions.

Consequences of succumbing vary: outcomes can destroy beautiful, loving relationships, leave one incarcerated for committing reckless acts of violence, deceased because of that violence, or disconnected from key humanity (physically becoming incapacitated within chronic withdrawal)—the result of severe debilitating depression. One may outright go insane (a situation whose example will surface below.)

Such is the chaotic after effect that for this one, watchful leaders embraced and skillfully reorganized—they called it "coming through the fiery birth canal of consciousness."

Group level insight could then work its magic: with surgical precision masters of liberation methodically assailed years of encrusted psychological barriers; slowly, a bruised young ego’s diehard defenses could again became lowered—one self-sabotaging nuance at a time; freed emotions now settled toward entertaining the healthier situation that allowed for a desperately needed healing.

In healing circles this is referred to as assisting an aspirant with discovering a critical life transforming tool: they call it the seeking spirit.

Fate followed up its divine preparation: with new adjustment an inner eye marveled at the profound significance of oneself on totally unforeseen levels—fresh perspective envisioned the rise of a morphed integral point, like a recharged beacon standing out on the broad migrating landscape of the African Diaspora.

A new attitude (riding on a brilliantly comprehended new scheme) spurred animated desire that this time celebrated healthy action—emphasizing the total opposite of violence. At long last a priceless item could be embraced; one that still eludes greater masses of deeply disenchanted Blacks (but it undoubtedly remains the soul of motivational freshness.) The item is known as a supreme sense of purpose.

Self-hatred Served On

A Glittering Platter Of Seduction

Plunked within mounting piles of urban blight rare opportunity waited for a newfound sense of purpose to be set into motion. Without hesitation this author accepted an invitation to plunge head-on into an educational crisis project (founded by these same receptors.) Collective action worked to expand rescuing the decimated spirits of other Black children, simultaneously overhauling a rapidly failing local teaching system; base-setting steps envisioned enacting revision on a broad scale.

Central to the project was this: a monumental boosting of the Black positive self-concept. Thorough immersion in Afro-cultural enrichment was tailored to do the trick.

Combining this new tactic with an expanded standard classroom curriculum provided just the overhaul-net needed to catch these students who teetered-on-the-brink. Something amazing happened: lost excitement to learn was steadily reversed; self-motivation displayed effects likened to a profound character reboot—validation of a tested innovative vision proved swift as results were instant and inspiring!

Finally, at least some measures were being set into place—by some action taking coalition—in order to revitalize from the root up, San Diego’s much neglected African-American community.

The religious viewpoint here definitely did not miss the equation and became critically affected: a wider exposure to alternative brands of spiritual expression could only be a natural byproduct of simultaneously having one’s own seeking spirit salvaged (and revitalized.) Things would take an interesting turn.

Afro-spiritual illumination partly found its substance rising jointly with Mahayana tradition (introduced by certain staffs who were Buddhist.) The historical information discovered though, would soon have those previously asked religious questions—with all their perplexity—charging forth again to demand what would now be carefully scrutinized answers.

Because of this country’s institutionalized suppression of Pan-African history, this author was one of many who experienced a strange sense of emptiness inside when trying to reflect upon what should have been the legacy of a proud African-American racial heritage: it was painful to frolic about on early childhood school yards knowing that Asians could claim China, Japan and a number of Asiatic or Pacific Island cultures; so-called Hispanics could claim Central and South America, or Spain, including (although somewhat less enthusiastically) a partial Native American ethnicity; and whites could proudly refer to any number of highly prized European lineages that are so intrinsically celebrated (even by non whites) all across American society.

But the Black children would dare not identify an African heritage as their own. Africans were looked upon as an ugly and primitive, uncivilized disgrace. Instead, the African-American schoolmates of this author scrambled to lay claim to a variety of what had to be other possibilities. Those who did strut their display of a lighter skin hue, or less kinky hair texture (and they were innumerable) would boast that their tan lines—and their relaxed hair—had to be proof of another kind of multi-cultural make-up, especially one that promoted having that valued Caucasian gene. Others who bore the undeniable mark of deep African melanin and sported solidly kinky hair either jokingly changed the subject, or remained paralyzed within a shame-filled silence.

And unfortunately, this author along with too many others also fell prey to another pervasive, barbarous form of victimization (that still inundates America’s institutions); one whose very subject left its secret membership paralyzed within a double silent shame—it stems from the unshakable reality of an inherent gay spirit nature.

When heterosexuals celebrated and even flaunted their romances or sexual conquests, again, none of the outsiders would dare lay claim to being of a lesbian or gay heritage—let alone have the resourceful awareness that such a heritage even existed. The only sources of explanation regarding the homosexual historical issue during this time period came from the dominant and hostile, Puritanical mainstream religious institutions.

The Puritan religious branch quickly swept its commanding influence across the attitudes and subsequent actions carried out by most all other institutions (including the so-called renegade progressive Christian religious lineages) with bull dozing dominance—it freely trumpeted its threat from the very seat of this so-called democracy’s Federal government (an institution founded on the concept of separating religion from the state, but one that is hardly religiously neutral.) Individuals (or groups) who bravely chose dedication to Eastern religious bases—particularly Western converts—risked severe reprisals should they be found out, or stir too vigorously (by openly proselytizing) outside of their own sidelined shadows.

The result established the religious based legislative momentum that continues to drive a brutal social protocol, where Puritan ideology still rides magnanimously atop the policy making hierarchy. In this context we all know too well what resulted when a brave soul dared to own outwardly their homoerotic expressiveness—a swift, unflinching and calamitous social retaliation.

Historically speaking it is widely known that spirituality is a vital component in the development of an individual’s, as well as a society’s collective positive self-concept. According to a popular pocket dictionary spiritual—as opposed to religious—is defined as: (1) of the spirit or the soul as distinguished from the body or material matters; (2) of, from, or concerned with the intellect; (3) showing much refinement of thought and feeling; (4) sacred, devotional; and (5) spiritualistic or supernatural.

Religion can succinctly be defined as the structured system established by a community, an institution, or an individual, that would set into motion the practice of a particular spiritual (or ideological) belief.

It has been proven without a doubt that a positive self-concept is especially critical in the development of a child’s healthy productive future; the same vital element is also critical for any community that struggles while in the early process of establishing its base operation—or as it works to offset the severe damage and social upheaval produced by powerful, undeterred antagonistic forces.

Such a glaring challenge (even during these so-called times of modern social progress) is shaped into multifaceted proportions and still does truly impose itself—especially considering an established, well groomed, culturally subjective machine’s vast dollar driven ideals: a domineering social force determines undeniably what is acceptable as an ultimate aesthetic, or living standard.

High-octane advertising capability oils a cacophony of carefully devised human self-hatred vehicles (all while meticulously threading its operations through a national sea of socially wrecked souls.) Here, Madison Avenue’s Eurocentric financial sharks maintain skyrocketing profits—they capitalize monetarily on vast pickings (i.e. people who desperately hope to achieve its visionary levels of lifestyle acceptability.)

This insidious phenomenon particularly spotlights the enormous plight towering unchecked over a Western based, materially pacified African-American stratum—the Black community itself is willingly subdued by the false glitter of a purposefully indifferent establishment.

Mainstream colonial religious institutions being crafted as a dominant force within African-American communities has had a powerful impact on the kinds of life-related attitudes that are not only embraced, but often desperately clung to by many Black people. It is a fact that how one views themselves, or does not, becomes vital when attempting to make healthy decisions about themselves, related to the environment in which they live.

It is also a fact, as it has already been expertly and historically illustrated elsewhere, that a major part of the African-American legacy rests upon a social foundation which exposes a carefully orchestrated external campaign—one that effectively articulated the development of pervasive Afro cultural denial. Such is what strengthened the road to cementing (for the industry) an ever reliable economically exploitable commodity: internalized Black self-hatred.

Forced To Check Adversity

From A Multitude Of Directions

A close examination here reveals a glaring destructive pattern: induced social consequences for Blacks are not only multi-layered, but strangely unchecked—detrimental exploitation is rendered normal in a deceiving cloud of altruism (which translates into a transient element simply known as good intention.)

While it is true that in the history of this country’s Civil Rights movement certain progressive African-American leaders have utilized Black Christian church platforms—literally risking or giving their lives to lead the way in the battle to secure equal rights for Blacks and disenfranchised people—the National Black Christian Operative remained greatly conflicted around these issues. In fact, opposition to involving their congregations in this battle remained severe.

The late Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was greatly frustrated by this corrosive phenomenon and in numerous key speeches (mostly obfuscated by a controlling US media) vocalized it passionately with continuous electrified admonition. To this date—a deceptive historical time when the social conditions in the Black community are worse than ever—these national religious bodies still grapple with the undeniably ruinous consequences of that historical neglect, and argue over what (if anything) should be done to change its direction for the future.

A fast forward to recent times finds The National Black Christian Operative grappling with another consequential aspect of disconnect: its refusal to mention the term AIDS, aside from within the context of religiously castigating gays, continues to be terribly problematic. HIV’s unchecked (and unacknowledged) decimation left glaring congregational gaps where once dwelled the church’s best dedicated and talented worshipers—ironically, as one shall eventually see below, those casualties did include some highly revered antigay preachers.

Interestingly enough the seat of what became more visible developmental AIDS service agencies initially sprang up from within the ranks of a better established white Lesbian/Gay mainstream system. But Black Lesbians and Gays also quickly organized to address the so-called hidden layers of adversities that effected their ethnicities from a multitude of directions that were not limited to medical—Black gays who explored outside of their own culturally protective (in the life) undergrounds—especially when outwardly affirming an allegiance to Afro-American culture—found the same general American dynamic awaiting them within that gay mainstream culture: a racism which readily displayed both an overt hostility and an insidious emotional veneer of outright indifference.

A blatant example of this white gay cultural self-absorption could not be better illustrated than in their recent outcries, blaming mainstream Blacks (who only make up 4% of California’s population) for the passage of Prop. 8—it repealed California’s legalization of gay marriage. Never mind the white gay leadership’s failure to capitalize on unprecedented opportunities that would expand campaign inroads within Black social infrastructures (utilizing the progress and insights scratched out by the previous efforts of Black gays.) And never mind that this same leadership failed to heed the advice of the late gay activist/San Francisco Board Of Supervisors member Harvey Milk: this political rebel rebuked the fears of the gay mainstream during the 1976 Briggs Initiative campaign, urging gays (and their leadership) everywhere to come out—this would put a crucial living face on who exactly was being discriminated against and visually show whose lives would be so utterly devastated.

That dastardly Briggs Initiative would have caused gay teachers and their open supporters to lose their jobs and future hiring possibilities—Proposition 6 eventually went down in flames regardless of gay coming out fears and this was (at the time of this writing) some 35 years ago.

The response to Blacks (displayed by those pre existing white based AIDS institutions) would mostly prove to not be any different. A glaring result (after a flurry of national law suites) saw alternative Gay People Of Color sponsored HIV agencies springing up all across the country and whites being forced to show proof of minority outreach to now receive their basic funding.

Department of Public Health (DPH) statistics as of 2009 (which undoubtedly haven’t improved) indicated that there are approximately 56,300 new HIV cases each year—startling in and of itself an astounding 33 to 45 percent of those are African-American (who only represent 11% of the total population.) As Black women steadily reflect the largest percentages of these new HIV infections, followed by Black men categorized as MSM (men who have sex with other men but don’t identify as gay, homosexual or bisexual) healthcare workers and social activists have their work cut out: to this day health advocates continue the battle to crack the blinders fixed upon Black mainstream awareness (all while white gay and bisexual male infections show a steady decrease.) Efforts at making substantial resourceful change continue to struggle in a greatly dysfunctional, multifaceted but conservative religious driven community and are pressed beneath the weight of a clinically daunting challenge:

If Black people (let alone others who battle for social advancement, or legally recognized Civil Rights) are to effectively rebuild a healthy community out of the chaos—the historical leftovers whose consumption of this overall society rises daily with deadly and all too predictable speed—one then must be crystal clear about the direction of their steered actions and intent. People truly cannot dismantle or build constructively upon that which remains allusive, ambiguous, or simply un-discussed. Disconnection on the part of any side should no longer be perceived as healthy, or a luxury option.

So it is here that this author must examine the living source behind white Puritanical-American religious cultural attitudes: at this point one must surmise that the Afro-Christian mainstream is well aware of their choice to steadfastly embrace a mostly unchanged system of religious tools (and that they know these tools were created for some very specific, undisguised purposes by former masters); if so, then they also realize that these same tools were methodically left intact to be carefully guarded (and