Saturday, May 22, 2010
Parable of a Dying White Man
Parable of a Dying White Man
He was the agent for the sale of my archives. My daughter said he was an arrogant bastard, dad, just like you! Only difference, he was a rich arrogant bastard. He was highly intelligent, like you dad, my daughter Nefertiti said.
He had a book store with an excellent collection of black literature, one of the best on the West coast or East coast, thousands of volumes. But Peter was steeped in world literature, but well read in black literature. He sold my archives to the Bancroft Library at the University of California, Berkeley. Among other black authors, he'd also sold the archives of Eldridge Cleaver and Ishmael Reed. He was in the process of selling the archives of Joyce Carol Thomas, another black author.
Peter became a friend, even though he was a white supremest. Yes, he helped me more than anyone in obtaining several thousand dollars at a time when I needed several thousand dollars.
But when I came to him for help publishing my book How To Recover From the Addiction to White Supremacy, he told me he would not help me because he and his friends were not trying to recover, actually, they loved white supremacy and would bomb the world to keep white supremacy.
On another occasion he said he would help me if there was a way to make me part of "the family." He tried to find a way, sincerely he did, but it didn't work out, so I never made it into his family to get the help needed.
When he read my monograph Mythology of Pussy, he said it was not for black people, but for him (meaning white people). In other words, the nature or the subject matter was beyond black people since it dealt with patriarchal mythology, the essence of white supremacy oppression and domination.
During his perusal of Mythology, he told me to shut up and let him finish. I found this ironic since a friend in Philly allowed a white woman to read the monograph and she also told him to shut up and let her finish, even told him to leave her house if he wasn't going to be quiet. He left her house but peeked through the window to see her still absorbing the Mythology and emailing her friends to read it.
But pancreatic cancer is taking my friend out. He knows the show is over. He seems very bitter that God has cursed him, yet he knows God is the one with the power here, no matter how much money he has or had.
He used to brag about how much money he had. "I just went to New York and purchased the archives of a friend for $200,000. I didn't need the stuff, but I wanted to help my friend.
You know a check came to my book store the other day for $45,000.00. I don't know where it is, but it'll show up. I'm not worried about it."
And so my friend is going down slow. And I confess I love him because he helped me like no other person on this earth. And, yes, as my daughter Nefertiti said, he is an arrogant/intelligent bastard, very much like myself.