Bela Sei Bela Video || Best Record

Click & Close Ads Click & Close Ads When you’re black, you experience random acts so extremely ignorant or blatantly racist that you simply have to laugh; for instance, when people assume you ordered chicken, call you the N-word at the supermarket or ask if they can touch your hair. When you’re black in America, such stale and corny interactions are par for the course. Yes, racism is quite predictable. So when I spoke on a Drunk TED Talk panel about Kanye West in New York I anticipated a less than favourable reaction to my topic, Do White People Deserve Kanye? Indeed, the very question itself was poised in a way to be kinda confrontational – a warning shot. Sure enough, the mostly white crowd quietly vacated the room while I was speaking. When I was asked to participate, I had never met the event organiser – a white man. When we met, I told him that I might “curse out some white people” and that I was happy to have the opportunity to tell them they didn’t own anything about Kanye. He said that this was very much what he wanted; he was aware that he was also white and was comfortable with being mocked. I sighed. Many times white people ask you to admonish them in public simply to absolve the guilt they feel for knowing about racism but choosing to enjoy privilege. It’s emotionally exhausting. Click & Close Ads Click & Close Ads The schedule of events saw four white writers each give separate talks (topics ranged from poetry, to a critical theory of Kanye “rants” and even the Gamification of Kanye West) and a panel of four black people. (Are you actually surprised?) While the room was full for the first talk, a drop-off was expected for the second. Meanwhile the panelists and I stood in the back drinking (for four hours!), listening to the presentations and rolling our eyes at their conclusions: either they were truisms, already covered by writers of colour, or simply uncomfortable for us. Taking the stage, we agreed to keep a good humour but not lie. By the time we were done, half the crowd was gone. I watched them walk out. I saw them gasp for air once they reached the outer courtyard, gesturing to friends to “get the hell out of here”. I was so unsurprised that I had to stop myself from making a joke about it from the stage.So what did I say to make people leave? Just like Kanye, I dared to say too much: about the appropriation of black music, the ownership of black bodies by paying white customers, the truth of classism as silent racism and the systemic racism that does not allow for black people to speak their truth without resistance, or to own the stories that they have written. It’s all good in a rap song but when black people are slaughtered in Charleston, we are asked to remove race from the conversation and the “struggle” that everyone just rapped along to, identified with and laid claim to is swiftly denied. Meanwhile, the trauma and danger remains for black people to bear and we must fight to prove that it is us who are being hunted. My every word was spoken with conviction but it didn’t matter – I was speaking without regard for the makeup of the room. I dared to make white people uncomfortable and to strip them of their entitlement to the most polarising figure of our time and I didn’t speak in terms of maybe, I spoke in the definitive. I said things that would have caused people to interrupt me or get defensive had I said them at a bar. Thoughts I would have never been able to finish. The audience had paid to hear me speak and I showed no semblance of gratitude. This is what most white audiences find threatening about Kanye. Wealth and fame comes at the cost of silence and Kanye defies that classist silence with every performance. Worse, with each act of defiance he buys more influence as the story goes viral. As I told the crowd, rich black people are not allowed to talk back or speak about any issues within their social circles once they “level up” because they should be expressing gratitude for their inclusion. They should smile and be happy that they’re lucky enough to have money and rich white friends – as many people that look like them “aren’t so lucky”. When classism is even more prevalent than racism, someone as outspoken as Kanye is downright offensive. It’s no surprise that his booking at the top of the bill at Glastonbury has inspired death threats. The mostly white crowd attending festival has had enough of the arrogant black man who thinks he can say whatever he feels without considering his paying white customers and his “place”. Referring to the audiences at Kanye’s shows, an audience member suggested that West makes “white-friendly” rap. I told him there was no such thing because it was black music about white oppression; his music was never friendly, as Kanye himself hardly is. Meanwhile, the crowd forfeited their $5 to escape the discomfort of my casual yet enraging truth. They were not interested in letting me touch their hair and they let me know by quietly slipping out in protest. There is a conversation about Kanye, which white people refuse to have; one that lays bare the reality of racism. Many white people, like those in that audience, believe that their interest in Kanye is enough to allow them to understand these problems, but he is not a trophy. I wasn’t there to congratulate people for coming and Kanye will not be either. If you pay to see him this weekend you will have no more control over him than you did last week or the year before. I did not expect to learn much at my talk but it reaffirmed something very important: the truth will always be resisted. Kanye is resisted because his very existence speaks the truth that I discussed but just like my audience, when one has the option to disengage it is always easier to walk out. Whatever the reaction is for Kanye, you can trust that it will come as no surprise to him, just as it didn’t to me. Click & Close Ads Click & Close Ads