Can You Fool the White Wizard?
23 August 2018
Absalom, Absalom, American literary Canon, Atom Bombs, Civil War, Fall Out 4, KKK, Literature, Modernism, Nobel Prize, nuclear annihilation, Postmodernism, Reconstruction, The Catcher in the Rye, The Deep South, The Sound and the Fury, William Faulkner, World War I, Writers, Writing
It may just be attributed to the region I find myself in, but it’s heartbreaking to discover how many of my fellow English majors admit that they do not like William Faulkner. It is just as heartbreaking discovering that William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Ernest Hemingway, and Dante Aligheri are included in the list of authors that, in my compatriot’s words, just aren’t that interesting. Once I’ve gotten over the homicidal urge to implode their skulls with a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire and have managed to smile my widest shit-eating-grin that I can muster, I begin to make my case as best I can. At the core of all final, and let’s be honest, desperate defense my plea often amounts to the sentiment that studying literature is not just about the stories, it’s as much about the craft that goes into the words as their final meaning.
While I understand the animosity towards the other writer’s on the list (their language is perceived of as either outdated or full of itself but that’s only true for Hemingway) I don’t fully understand the animosity towards Faulkner. I understand, from a common reader’s perspective, that Faulkner is difficult as fucking fuck, there’s a scar that runs down the length of my chest that serves as a reminder that I’ve read Absalom, Absalom and survived, but that doesn’t mean that the man was farting around. Faulkner was a craftsman and the only masturbating he ever did with words were the screenplays he wrote while he was in Hollywood. In the man’s defense he needed money and we’ve all done things we’re not proud of behind the dumpster at a Red Lobster that one Sunday in 2010 to pay for a laptop that one time…ahem. Like Shakespeare, Faulkner recognized what writing could do, what it was for, and how it could benefit the rest of humanity while also using it to tell stories.
This is clear and apparent to anyone who has ever read or listened to his Nobel Prize acceptance speech.
The Nobel Prize is, for many people, still an indication that you’ve actually done something with your life unlike Dale who’s forty and still living at home. I know, we’re planning on talking to him about looking for work, but it’s his birthday next week and it feels like it would be a dick move to just kick him to the curb. We’ll get to it eventually. The fields of nomination, in case the reader is unfamiliar with the topics, are Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Peace, Economics, and Literature, and for the record I believe it’s a bum rap for Historians that their work are left unrewarded. Anybody who’s willing to dig through parchment and use an actual Microfilm machine deserves a fucking gold medal in my opinion.
Faulkner worked his entire life exploring themes, attitudes, and the general atmosphere of the Deep South, a territory defined by its physical beauty and marred by the jarred and damaged psyche of the post-Civil War South, and in that time the man managed to accomplish things with prose that can only be imitated today. Twelve years before his death, December 10 1950, he received his Nobel Prize and began his speech accordingly:
Ladies and gentlemen,
I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work – a life’s work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand here where I am standing.
The reader who fancies themselves a writer in some form or fashion might take an opportunity to recognize a great introduction when they read it. Looking over this speech there seems a wonderful humbling character that Faulkner is able to pull off, yet at the same time he goes nowhere near the level of self-depreciation that is the stock image of writers. Instead he positions himself as a voice or a beacon summing young men and women who desire to become writers to him to understand or hear his words of experience.
Faulkner’s speech is not a preachy sermon, but rather he pushes forward, recognizing a larger issue at hand:
Our tragedy today is a general and universal physical fear so long sustained by now that we can even bear it. There are no longer problems of the spirit. There is only the question: When will I be blown up? Because of this, the young man or woman writing today has forgotten the problems of the human heart in conflict with itself which alone can make good writing because only that is worth writing about, worth the agony and the sweat.
It’s easy to forget how imposing the threat of nuclear annihilation was for the people living in the 1950s, even if you play Fall Out 4 on a regular basis like I do and have found the Fat Boy, a weapon that literally shoots miniature nuclear bombs at the player’s enemies. The Mushroom cloud, that potent phallic burst of light, has faded into a soft glow or plot device that inspires only momentary awe before we remember that the main character is being voiced by Ryan Reynolds and that the boy at the counter overcharged for that second refill of popcorn. Nuclear annihilation infected the zeitgeist and consciousness of everyone who lived in the world following the end of the Second World War thus making it difficult to really recognize problems that didn’t involve the total and utter collapse of human existence. I find it difficult to hold it against the people of that time, the bomb was so new, so powerful, and the people in charge of wielding it were, at times, unpredictable or nightmarishly evil.
For those of us living in the twenty-first century, the bomb has lost much of its potency and so topics dealing with the heart, the self, and the spiritual power of the individual have been able to slowly but surely seep back into the literature being produced, but not as much as there could be.
There’s something missing in much of the work being produced, either for the larger public or for the small handful of literary weirdos and geniuses (I only fall into the first category) that are writing and publishing. Faulkner offers up his summation.
He must learn them again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed – love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands.
The word bones shall always an archetypal quality because it speaks to the root of ourselves. Looking at my own creative writing, and speaking to other creative writers close to me, I’ve expressed some concern that Faulkner’s summation here may be correct. Theendless scenes of cock and balls and dick and pussy haunt my pages as well as the pages of numerous authors even if they don’t use those words. With a few exceptions (McCarthy and Eugenides to name two) there are few contemporary authors that try to use writing to speak to that core space where lessons of destiny and greatness are sealed on the edifice of time…god I sound like a fucking AM radio, but the point stands: writing exists to understand the nature of human beings and dissolve the barriers that exist between peoples.
Well so what? My contester asks, Faulkner was a Modernist, one of those weirdos that draw dots against dots and call it art. What relevance does this speech possess to someone working as a mechanical engineer or a doctor?
The purpose, dear reader, has already been said. Writing can at times merge into esoteric malarkey and I have read some novels labeled as “genius” (*Cough, cough*Finnegan’s Wake*cough, cough)* that honestly would have been better served as sketches than actual “art works.” Faulkner is difficult, and anyone who has struggled through The Sound and the Fury has probably wondered why they should give three shits about a splintered family in Mississippi and holy crap I just figured out that’s what the novel was actually about. Faulkner was a Modernist that bordered on Postmodernity, and while the reader may not believe that’s terribly important I assure you it is. It will require a small history lesson though.
Following the end of the First World War many young men returning from battle were disillusioned about the previous beliefs and attitudes society held. Words like honor, religion, authority, and god didn’t seem to possess any kind of meaning after watching scores of their friends and acquaintances gunned down in No Man’s Land or suffering from the various gasses that were spilled over them. Putting it simply, when you watch your friend cough up his own lungs after breathing in mustard gas it’s a little hard to take a phrase like “the glory and honor of battle” seriously. As such the people that followed the war known as “the lost generation.” In the case of Faulkner this ideology is compounded by the fact that he lived and developed his craft in the Deep South. On one side note my father permanently sealed the impression of Faulkner on me when I was a young man by always lowering his voice and shuddering “the Deep South” with a mixture of disgust and pleasant glee. Following the end of the Civil War a period known as Reconstruction took place in America. When the Union armies had swept over the Confederacy they had a tendency to burn everything as they went. Even after the war was done Union soldiers occupied the southern states and Northern generals and commanders occupied positions of power in the local governments until, through the help of guerilla warfare and a fucked-up organization known as the KKK, “them damn Yankees were plum kicked out a the south.” Losing a war is different than winning one and before you say “fucking duh” it’s not for the reason you think. Ask anyone from Texas about the war and the sentiment you reach is generally “We didn’t lose, we just put the war on pause.” The Civil War left a scar on the hearts and minds of Southerners inspiring folk-songs, legends, narratives, terrible bumper stickers, but above all it lingering created pain.
At the start of this year I began my last semester of grad school taking two classes. One over the works of Emily Dickinson (127 poems, two chapters of a biography, and two chapters of an academic book… a week) and another on 20th Century American Literature. The professor, Dr. Karen Sloan, is a good friend of mine and when I saw the reading list I knew I had to take it because, apart from The Catcher in the Rye, was the novel Light in August. Like much of his work the novel follows the splintered and damaged people of a southern town trying to understand their hearts and minds that feel, often, broken. Faulkner’s work was about the South, but far more often it was about sealing on the bones of human consciousness that feeling of isolation and damage.
Faulkner as a writer tried only to capture that feeling and make sure humanity saw that work for what it was.
Until he relearns these things, he will write as though he stood among and watched the end of man. I decline to accept the end of man. It is easy enough to say that man is immortal simply because he will endure: that when the last dingdong of doom has clanged and faded from the last worthless rock hanging tideless in the last red and dying evening, that even then there will still be one more sound: that of his puny inexhaustible voice, still talking.
I refuse to accept this. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance. The poet’s, the writer’s, duty is to write about these things. It is his privilege to help man endure by lifting his heart, by reminding him of the courage and honor and hope and pride and compassion and pity and sacrifice which have been the glory of his past. The poet’s voice need not merely be the record of man, it can be one of the props, the pillars to help him endure and prevail.
Looking at this last paragraph I find myself where I began, scratching my head and biting my tongue as I consider those people that tell me they despise Faulkner. I many ways, and I’m terrified to write this since many of them count as members of my audience, I despise them for it. The criticism of the man’s work is never in fact against his work, it’s never because they believe he has nothing to say as a writer, nor is it ever that they feel that his work is empty of meaning or creative direction. In the end the sentiment is: Faulkner is hard therefore not worth my time.
This speech should silence that sentiment, as well as my patient contester who keeps me going. Seriously bro[dette] we need to go out for drinks soon, it’s been too long. Faulkner’s Nobel Prize speech is a work that should be read to and by any and all people who wish to become writers because the job is more than just telling cute stories with fun characters. Writing is first and foremost the physical manifestation of thought, it’s the way we shape and refine our thoughts and even recognize what is lost, broken, beautiful, and damaged about our souls. Writers like Faulkner have inspired men like Cormac McCarthy who in turn inspired people like me to pick up a pen, or a word processor, and start typing hoping somebody, somewhere, would read my thoughts and recognize a kindred spirit, or in the very least some wacko with a blog who bitches about why people don’t like Faulkner.
The Poet’s, or really the writer’s voice, is ultimately the fire that attempts to fill the authoritarian darkness that attempts to stamp out our voice in the first place. Writer’s don’t and shouldn’t write for glory, but because they have a few more words to carve into the bones for the future ones to read and inspire.
To be fair to the reader I haven’t read the entirety of Finnegan’s wake. I’ve read the first few pages and found it a jumbled mess of jibberish and esoteric genius that, try as I may, I cannot find any ground to move forward into. I will defend Joyce as a writer only so far as Ulysses and Picture of the Artist as a Young Man, because even I admit that art should have some relevance to people actually living in society instead of their own mind.
**Writer’s Second Note**
Below I’ve posted a link to a transcript of the entire speech, though I’ve quoted it in it’s entirety in the essay, and I have also posted link to a recording of Faulkner reading the actual speech. A professor friend of mine always posts this whenever she teaches Faulkner and I never grow tired of hearing the man’s voice. It’s the Johnney Rep in me.
The recording, NOTE, this recording does NOT include the entire speech:
I suppose there’s no point in being clever about this, I own a confederate flag. You see, if you happen to be a white man in any of the southern states, you’re at some point either going to own one, see one, know someone that owns one, or you’re going to paste it on the back of your truck or your girlfriend’s ass (her pants I mean). Now I don’t fly the flag, because there’s no way I could. The flag is really more of a bandanna, about a foot long and half a foot wide. I’ve owned it since I was about thirteen. For a while I had it tacked, yes, I said tacked, onto my bedroom wall for about three or four years, and then it found its way into my underwear drawer where it’s stayed until this day. Until I took it out after I heard about Charleston.
Now as soon as I heard the news I was shocked, but really just angry that this same shit keeps happening over and over again. This anger was quickly followed by anger directed at Fox News for their attempt to gloss over the tragedy and try to make it an attack against Christianity. I was frustrated after I watched President Obama address the nation, because it’s clear the man is defeated and feels that he can’t do or say anything to change it. This was followed by actual weeping after Watching Jon Stewart’s five minute riff when he abandoned all pretense of comedy and just spoke honestly. And finally an intellectual conundrum today as I read that the Confederate flag was being taken down from the state house in South Carolina.
I’m sure I’m not alone in having friends that are debating this issue voraciously on Facebook; the pattern of this debate could be predicted before the last shell casing fell in Charleston. Just about every white person online, if they’re from the south is arguing that the flag is a representation of our nation’s history, or else just a symbol for white pride and states’ rights. Though I note with pride that several of my white friends aren’t taking this position. The opposite side is that many people of color are calling the flag a symbol of racism and hate.
As for myself, I’m torn.
There’s a scene in the television series South Park where Stan says to the character Token, “I get it now. I don’t get. I’ll never know what it’s like to be called that word, and I never will.” At this moment this is my position, and for the purpose of this intellectual exercise I’m going to try to understand the flag from both sides, with the understanding that I’ll still never get it.
We’ll start with the position with which I have the least footing.
Many African American organizations are protesting the flag, because they argue that the flag represents nothing but racism and white hate. This position is understandable, once we remember the history of that flag as it’s been actively employed. What many white people arguing for the flag seem to be either ignoring, or just trying to forget, is that the confederate flag is actively employed and revered by numerous white hate organizations. The Klu Klux Klan, a White Christian terrorist group, is always seen saluting it, even going so far to have their own unit, known as the color guard, responsible for the protecting it. The Klan is the most obvious symbol for everything that is fucked up about the South, and white people to boot, and they have embraced the flag as a symbol of their own power and agency. It becomes understandable then why many would be uncomfortable when that flag is waved around in public. The physical offenses against black people performed by the Klan include lynching, mutilation, genital mutilation, torture, gang rape, arson, and outright physical assault. Black men, as I’ve addressed in a recent post, could expect one of the worst punishments as many white racists were intimidated by Black sexuality and made an effort to neuter black men lest their steal their women. All of these actions have been taken place under the shadow of the Confederate flag.
Is it any wonder then that black people want it taken down? When your grandfather was lynched because he gave a car ride to a white woman, your pain is rather validated. But it’s not just the physical pressure that that flag reminds in many. It is the consistent political, economic, and psychological inequality that comes with it. African Americans have, in the last two centuries, struggled tremendously to try and catch up to the position that whites have blossomed under. It’s only within the last decades that we’ve seen the rise of African American millionaires, and while some would suggest that African Americans are equal, remember that the concentration of wealth in this nation is dominated by white people. If you don’t believe me Google Bill Gates, The Koch Brothers, & Warren Buffet and see if you still disagree with me.
As for the flag flying over Charleston, what was possibly the greatest offense of the whole affair was that, while the American and state flag was hung at half mast, the confederate flag was secured in its position by chains. I’m a literature major, and a writer, and I can’t even come up with a better metaphor.
The position of many African Americans it seems is that their voices have for too long been ignored, and that whenever they try to address their own dissenting view, they’re told to remember they’re place. The flag is more than just a tool used by white hate groups; it’s a reminder that they’re a second class party.
I’ve done my best there to understand one party’s side, let me now try to understand white people’s side.
One of my favorite stories about Heavy Metal Guitar player “Dimebag” Darrel is that he had longhorns on the front of his Cadillac, and beneath that, on his license plate was an image of the Confederate flag. He also owned, and regularly played, a guitar that had the confederate flag printed on the body. The man would always say, “I’m proud to be from the South.” Now there’s no way anybody could call “Dimebag” Darrel a racist; out of the mass of humanity you’re wont to find a kinder or more generous soul. But the idea that the flag represents the south and its culture has always been a dubious position at best.
For starters, the confederate flag wasn’t the ONLY confederate flag. The Confederate States actually went through three different versions of the flag, and the “Stars and Bars” that many people immediately flock to, isn’t the Confederate flag, for the image we associate with it, was actually a square. Now there is a rectangular version of this flag that was “The Second Confederate Navy Jack.” This flag was for the Confederate Navy.
Most southern people probably wouldn’t be able to tell you this, and I myself wouldn’t be able to tell you this if it weren’t for Wikipedia.
This leads me to the conflict of the position many white people take about the Confederate flag. They have flocked to the symbol the flag offers about enjoying being a southerner, but almost none of them have taken the time to actually open a book or do at the very least some minimal internet research about their actual “history.” For many whites, being from the south is about being a hick, shouting Yee-Haw, dancing to Hank William’s Jr. and George Strait, getting drunk, pasting confederate flags on women’s breasts, and falling on their ass.
I’m not trying to sound condemnatory when I say this; it’s my people after all. I’m from Texas and I’m damn proud of it. But still, there is the conflict about taking pride in a history I know very little about.
As for the argument that the flag is a representation of “culture,” I’m not sure I buy that either. The conflict with white people is that they have no real “culture” to speak of. If you observe the Upper Class of Whites in the south it’s a feudal enterprise coupled with the pomp of 18th century France. Europe has a culture, several in fact, and each of those cultures has their own set of foibles and mannerisms that have been developed literally over centuries of their existence. The problem with Americans is that we only have about 200 years of experience under our belt, and so our identity is still in the process of development. As such, we seem to cling to whatever heritage we have, and envy in our heart of hearts, those that have more than us, if you don’t believe me read about The Cult of Churchill and see what I’m talking about.
But to be honest my strongest argument about the confederate flag is not rooted in its racist history (I’m white, take that into account) but in its political statement. The Confederate flag is being created into a pseudo-patriotic symbol equal to the American flag. If you’re white and from the south, you have to worship the Confederate flag, and lord forbid you criticize, but what exactly are white southerners celebrating? The formation of the Confederacy marks a period of our nations past where our ability to communicate with one another became so splintered and racked with malice, that we broke our nation in two. That’s what bothers me: the celebration of treason. Now every nation, historically speaking, has to have a civil war at some point, it’s just part of the natural order, but that separation and bloodshed isn’t really something we should be celebrating. Like racism or pissing your pants in Gym Class (I was in the first grade, and it was only that one time), a civil war isn’t something we should be remembering with fondness, we should be remembering it with embarrassment and some shame.
The people that are attempting to defend the Confederate flag seem more concerned with their southern Confederate paradigm than they are with the real symbols that are supposed to support the American consciousness. If you want to be a red blooded American, wave the American flag. That’s the symbol that’s supposed to mean something, because it’s the symbol that has endured. Despite our disagreements, despite attacks against us, despite two centuries of internal conflict, the Stars and Stripes is the symbol that should inspire pride.
I guess this hasn’t been a fair argument for both sides, and I apologize, but this was only ever supposed to be thinking out loud.
My final point: If a nation is going to survive healthily, its people need to differentiate about the symbols that create our sense of identity. I’ll keep my confederate flag in my underwear drawer and keep the American Flag on my wall, because one symbol reminds me that I’m participating in a democracy, where people can be and speak and worship and think and write and act freely, and the other reminds me that there are nine dead people in Charleston and that I won’t be able to get on facebook for another week unless I want to unfriend a few people.
Though it also reminds me that I need to do laundry since the flag’s the only damn thing in there at the moment.
A Mind of It's Own: A Cultural History of the Penis, Albert Camus, Barn Burning, big black dicks, black men in porn, Black Sexuality, Blogging, Calvin C. Hernton, David M. Friedman, fish sex, George Takei, history, internet, KKK, Mandingo myth, Penis, phallus, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Rhetoric, T.H. White, The Book of Merlyn, The Stranger, Wordpress
We’ll get to big black dicks in a moment but first I wanted to ask you, the reader, a couple of questions. First off:
All right I think that’s enough. I’m not interested in showing off, I’m interested in shaming the casual reader of the blog that just showed up here. You see recently this blog hit over 3000 hits, and I won’t lie, I was incredibly happy. When this blog first started up, I was lucky to get twelve hits in a month, now I’m expected to get at least twenty hits a day. That’s a real satisfaction that I did not believe would wane. Until now.
You see, if you are a blogger on WordPress you are given the option to see how many hits you gone on one day, month, year, etc. You can also see what countries are looking at your blog, and I’m proud to say that people all over the world from Canada, Ireland, Sri Lanka, Hong Kong, South Africa, Togo, Russia, China, and even Saudi Arabia have given me hits. Along with these two benefits, the blogger has the option to see what “search terms” were used to find said blog, and this is where the story starts to get really funny or really sad depending on your style of humor.
One day I observed that someone had searched the term “Mandingo.” Now if you don’t know what that is I’ll explain it or you could Google it and see what you get. The “Mandingo myth” was an imperialistic concept created by Europeans once they had encountered native Africans. The idea developed that black men were inherently more sexual, more powerful, and had profoundly larger genitals. This of course is bullshit, but it lives on in our society as an important category in porn. Black men are usually paired off with petite blond women who ooh and ahh at the size of their dillies. The reason somebody found my blog was because I referenced the Mandingo myth in one of my essays about Animal Farm. I laughed at it and moved on with my life.
Oh if it had only stopped there.
Well the next day I observed a similar hit: big black dicks. This was accompanied by: Position on how to fuck somebody’s wife.
Well you could imagine my surprise. I’ll be honest I laughed.
I was so naïve. The next day I discovered that you could see all the search terms over the course of a year. The results were enough to kill that last little part of my childhood and hope for humanity. I’ll list off a few of them here so that you can understand what kind of clientele I’m apparently serving.
Black dicks of course remains one of the most popular hits on my blog, and you cannot know how relieved I am to know that burning barn is the second most searched term people have used to find me. I’m afraid to say it just plummets from there. While there is one quoted passage from Albert Camus’s The Stranger, and a search for the graphic novel Persepolis, the, to quote John Stewart, “forest of dongs” begins to emerge. Black dicks, Mandingo images, black gay human horse dick, satanic sex vagina and penis, my penis welling up, free Lolita’s fucked black dick (our apologies to Mr. Nabokov), a plethora of animal penis (that’s almost poetic, I forgive that one), all male Mandingo party (why wasn’t I invited?), boy farts on boy’s face (eww), Geoffrey Chaucer porn (who says English is boring?), black men dicks (that should be black men’s dicks sir), Mandingo big cock (yep), Mandingo biggest cock (yep again), faggot prostate orgasm (oh good god), Mandingo teen domination 4 (I hope you saw the last three or you won’t be able to follow any of it), monster dick ejaculation (Fetch me my goggles!), female in process in essait in sex (I don’t even…just…what?), Mandingo ideal (idealism is dangerous son), Mandingo party (what do the party favors look like?), African men dicks (again African men’s dicks), pig’s penis (here we go), coitus in pigs (to be fair I did write about this), sexual fish (what was that last one?), fish during sex photos (stop the train I want out!), image fish sex (who invited Jeff Foxworthy?), livestock penis (make sure to stretch first), and finally how attempted female fish sex…I’ll let Mr. George Takei take this one.
I for sure have at least fifty followers of this blog, fifty real human beings that visit this blog regularly to read what I write, and it would appear I also serve a great portion of humanity that have a fondness for big black dicks and fish sex. This is funny as it is frustrating. As the top page above the image of the Byronic hero suggests, I want this blog and the essays I write to serve humanity, and hopefully show one or two people that the works of classic literature are not just boring canonical texts that we’re forced to read in high school. Literature can change minds and show us, remind us of our own humanity. It can help us train our minds to develop empathy.
There is a book entitled A Mind of Its Own: a Cultural History of the Penis, and the title is everything it suggests. David M. Friedman explores what role the penis had in humanity’s consciousness throughout our entire civilization. Take for example the chapter The Measuring Stick. When the Klu Klux Klan began to take shape during the mid 1800s, violence against black men was due chiefly to white men’s fear of being sexually excluded. Friedman writes:
Whether the black penis really is larger than the white one is an unanswered, and maybe unanswerable, question. (It is highly unlikely any reputable scientific organization will fund a definitive study anytime soon.) What is a fact that many people, white and black, believe is larger. What is also true, and probably more important, is that many of those white people believe that “larger” black penis has a major—read:”dangerous”—cultural meaning. (125).
This point is continued on another page as he quotes Calvin C. Hernton:
“It is a disguised form of worship, a primitive pornographic divination rite,” he wrote in Sex and Racism in America. “In taking the black man’s genitals, the hooded men in white are amputating that portion of themselves which they secretly consider vile, filthy, and most of all, inadequate…Through castration, white men hope to acquire the grotesque powers they have assigned to the black phallus, which they symbolically extol by the act of destroying it.” (129).
Now I see where you’re taking me. You’re suggesting, that porn’s obsession with black dicks, as well as your casual reader’s obsession with black dicks, is a demonstration that white men in our culture are still terrified by the unspoken power they possess?
Yes, and no.
While there are many people that remain openly racist, there many white men in our world that, even if they are enlightened and have no problem with black people, still feel some awe and buy the rhetoric of the Mandingo myth. The website Blacked.com, which I assume many of my casual readers observe, is dedicated to nothing but skinny white girls banging giant black men. In the pornography industry black men who are shorter (in every sense of the term) are instructed to only penetrate halfway into women so that it seems they’re longer than they actually are. White men are still worshiping the black phallus because there is still this idea that it is a powerful object.
The conflict is, where is this leaving black men in America? What is it doing to them? In a sense, this subtle worship is still wreaking damage upon them, for even if we’re celebrating their phalluses and sexuality, there is still the conflict of the intimidation that inspires, and the larger issue which is that we’re objectifying black men and turning them into props of sexual animals devoid of any real humanity.
We like black dicks, because they’re just mindless animals devouring white women’s insatiable lusts. The conflict is, if you idealize a human being, or his anatomy, you strip them of their humanity leaving drastic consequences. Take for instance this lovely passage and see if you’re still horny:
Another black accused of consorting with a white woman had his penis—while still attached to him—nailed to a wooden board. His captors thrust a knife into the same piece of wood, then set the board on fire. The black man escaped, Martha Hodes writes in White women, Black Men, by the only means provided. (129).
Though this is pertinent, a quote in the previous page sums it up best:
To really kill a black man, you had to kill his penis. (128).
This article was at first just going to be a fun little joke at my own expense, but upon reflection I have realized a much darker implication from my own reading list. People have been finding my blog hopeful for images of violent black brutes fucking white women to satisfy some malignant worship, and instead they’ve been finding essays about George Orwell (which I’m sure he would have appreciated), and this is unlikely to change. The internet will stay the internet, such as it is. My only resolution to this matter is to follow the path Merlin spoke of in The Book of Merlyn by T.H. White:
“No,” he said. “Nobody can be saved from anything, unless they save themselves. It is hopeless doing things for people-it is often very dangerous to do things at all-and the only thing worth doing for the race is to increase its stock of ideas. Then, if you make available a larger stock, the people are at liberty to help themselves from out of it. By this process the means of improvement is offered, to be accepted or rejected freely, and there is a faint hope of progress in the course of the millennia. Such is the business of a philosopher, to open new ideas. It is not his business to impose them on people.
I can’t impose on people to stop looking at big black dicks, or searching for them. All I can do is put out my work and hope somebody learns something when they get here by accident.
Now as for fish sex…I can’t even figure out where that comes from. Maybe somebody’s got a kink about those Christian fish on the bumpers of cars.
If you scrolled down here for the answers, there are none. Find them yourself. You have agency and you live in the age of Google for crying out loud!
If you only scrolled through the essay to look at the pictures of the men I posted, you’re part of the problem! And thank you for your patronage.