These are dark times, brethren. Times in which conking out slack-jawed to the opiate high of playing videogames beats scaling the perilous cliffs of Mt. Cinema (I always have my local climbing gym do some real climbing!). So you may notice that Rio Bravado has been empty this past week, and for this I apologize. But fortunately I still manage to do a lot of reading, and on today’s edition of Book Learnin’ I have a real treat.
The Autobiography of Malcolm X!
History has worked against Malcolm X, whitewashing, softening, sounding alarm, carving in stone, but betraying little hint of the amorphousness of the guy’s identity, the neural rivulets of his magma-fluid intelligence. The ideological orbit around the issue of White Supremacy is circumferentially massive, but white folks have no room for telescopes. We’re allergic to the discourse, so we classify Malcolm X and MLK according to a fork-in-the-road binary. We blather on about the pendulum’s resting extremities while ignoring the downswing of its crescent razor into our collective white psyche. And believe you me, The Autobiography is psychic surgery, demanding radical empathy at the expense of a complacency that we like ruffled from time to time but never mutilated. Hey white people! Yeah you! Read this book! If black America has to read white people’s self-serving contortions of slavery as part of some state-sponsored Historical Erasure Initiative while Tamir Rices are getting slaughtered by the day, then the least you can do is get rattled by a black insurgent’s account of your own toxicity.