False Sense of Safety as a Black Professor

After more than ten years of teaching Film/Video at Compton College, I may no longer teach courses there, and it hurts. It hurts because I am a Compton native. I was born, raised, and I still live in the city. It hurts because I know the sweat, tears, and agony me and a colleague, a black woman film professor, poured into the school, the students, and the community. It hurts because I found out I was pushed aside by searching for what classes I would be offered this Spring only to see someone else’s name next to courses I’ve taught since 2010 and exclusively taught at the college since Spring of 2019. It hurts because after all of the sacrifices made to prove a few film courses can become a program at Compton, there’s finally a program, but neither of the people who nurtured it is a part of it. She was offered a full-time position a few years ago at another college. In fact, she may be the only black person running a film program in Southern California, and they are fucking fortunate to have her. She’s a great, dedicated educator who understands the entertainment landscape her students face. As for me, I’m still a part-time professor, but no longer teaching courses at my home college. And it hurts.

It hurts because no one at Compton College has spoken to me about why they hired someone (a non-POC person) over me, a professor that is a reflection of its students and community, who has done everything they’ve asked of him over the past ten years.  I’ve written program reviews, created budgets, updated SLOs, received more than $30,000 in donated film equipment and grants, and designed and curatored panels highlighting works of people of color and women — all because I believe Compton students deserve to have their stories told.

Some will read this and say “maybe they hired the best person,” and I’d agree. Maybe they did. I don’t know. I know that when I asked during my interview how this program differs from what we already have at the college no one on the hiring committee could answer. They said they “don’t know, but [they’re] hoping whoever they hire will tell [them].” If they do not know what this position entails, how do they know I nor a person of color could do the job? Ostensibly, I’ve been doing the job for years.

Furthermore, not one of my union brothers and sisters – I’ve been the union’s adjunct representative for the past two years – has reached out to me about their decision to hire someone who has not done any of the things I’ve done for the community we serve. I single them out because at least half of the hiring committee members for that position are also union members. Instead, I had to find out who they hired via a Google search, and at the time of publishing this, I still have not heard a word from any of them, even as they used my knowledge and lived experience to their benefit.

It hurts because I hear and see people at the college talk about equity, social justice, and racial justice, but what does that mean when you ignore the black labor that finds ways to succeed in under resourced, underfunded environments only to hire someone else to reap those benefits? That doesn’t look like equity and justice to me. To me, equity and racial justice looks like allowing black and brown people opportunities to succeed or to fail. And, if we happen to fail, not having that failure deny us of future opportunities, but, rather, allowing us to work in the communities where we were raised and feel safe. It is offering a full-time position, so faculty members can pay off student loans and invest back in the community — and for someone like me, helping pay off the house my parents have “owned” for forty years. The same house I still live in with my brother and mother. The same house that allows me to vote for the next Mayor of Compton and Compton Community College District Board Members – something few faculty members at the college can lay claim to. The same faculty members who use my personal knowledge and experiences of Compton for their benefit in the past two election cycles.

Equity and racial justice looks like understanding all of that when making hiring decisions that pushes out one of the few black film professors at a community college in Los Angeles. I’ve only been able to count three full-time black film professors at Community Colleges in Los Angeles. None of them teach south of the Ten. And people wonder why there are so few black and brown people in the film industry.

Equity and racial justice looks like understanding and making decisions while keeping all of that in perspective, but for most people, it’s just a phrase or hashtag to put in their Twitter bios. For others, every decision we make is steeped in the fight for equity and racial justice.

I’m not hurt simply because I was not hired. I’m hurt because of legacy of black and brown people being overlooked and undervalued even in places we should feel safe. Maybe that’s my fault. Maybe I never should have felt safe at Compton College, but I did. If we can’t feel safe, comfortable, and teach people in our own community, where can we? Where are those students who want and need to confide and trust in people who look like them and share similar experiences to them to go? Where will they go to feel safe to tell the stories they want to tell, if not in their own community?

What’s next for this black film professor? It most likely means my career as a film professor is coming to an end. Full-time film professor positions are extremely rare, especially when you prioritize teaching black and brown students above simply having “professor” as a title. After more than ten years of part-time teaching, having little to no health care most of those years, and being unable to pay my exorbitant student loans, it means I may have to leave Compton to find work, which isn’t a big deal on some level. I’ve done it before, but things are different now.

Me and Joseph at McNair Elementary in Compton circa 1995

I’m reminded of a mentor I had while at Morehouse, Dr. Colette Hopkins. She would talk about how some people were surprised she was able to find black men to work for her. “All you have to do is ask them,” she would say. Thank you, Dr. Hopkins for asking me.

Thank you, Prof. Swanson for telling me about the open position at Compton College, then known as El Camino College Compton Center, as you, me, and Pete drove back from an impromptu lunch that one afternoon in 2010.

Thank you, Dr. Bunting for calling me after I applied to set up an interview with Dr. Lyles at the college. I believe I speak for both Anitra and myself when I say you two helped make us the professors we are today. I would just sit in Dr. Lyles’ office, observing and listening to her when you and Dr. Evans would pop in. I’ll never forget when Gator asked you, Dr. Bunting, if you would see Think Like a Man (2012). You replied “no” to which Gator asked, “Why not? It’s going to make a lot of money.”  Without missing a beat, you said: “Slavery made a lot of money.” 

My heart sank through my stomach. Turning to Anitra didn’t help. She was trying to hold back laughter too! Thank you both. You were the old guard fighting for a younger guard. I did not realize that then, but I know it now. We love you for that.

Gator in E20 (2013)

Thank you, Ms. Boyer for always putting up with my lost attendance sheets at the end of semester. Your patience, warmth, and love of the Lakers meant I never wanted to disappoint you.

Thank you, Mr. James. After Dr. Lyles and Dr. Bunting retired, you filled a void of competence and reliability. I honestly do not know how things get done at the college without you. You helped me secure everything from classrooms for events to vans for field trips. You were always there to listen about the bureaucratic issues I encountered  and always found solutions for them with patience and grace.

Thank you Dr. Murray. We had our differences regarding the direction and urgency of developing the Film/Video program, yet when the college decided to move ahead with plans to build a new studio, you invited me to sit and give feedback, which I did. You did not have to do that, but you did because you trusted me and knew how much I cared.

Thank you Ms. Owens. We had many conversations about issues such as constant leaks in the old, but still functional, studio. You were kind and honest about the difficulties in changing some of those outcomes. I always appreciated it.

Thank you, Mr. Chris, for never failing to understand the potential and need for a film program in the City of Compton. I wish I had the support of the college so we could have done some of the many things we talked about.

Thank you to all of my industry friends who over the past ten years have donated their time, expertise, and work to my students. You all brought the industry to them.

Thank you, most importantly, to all of the students who trusted me with their time, education, and stories. I deeply enjoyed watching you all grow and learn. I know you would come into my class skeptical of this young professor at a college that was trying to earn back the trust and respect it squandered from a community that needs better. At times, I felt I was not enough, but I know you know I cared and I tried. You all were always the reason I did what I did. Thank you for allowing me to do it.

Nights w/ Bob Parlocha

I haven’t written anything on this blog/website in I don’t know how long. Yes, I could see when my last post was, but I don’t really care. It’s past 2 am, and I’m up per usual “doing work.” This time, I am actually working. I’m writing a feature that will never get made, but it’s fun, and I’m in a class for it. What’s really making my night is that I’m writing, watching Manhattan (muted with subtitles), drinking an American Mule, and listening to “Jazz with Bob Parlocha”. I used to listen to Bob Parlocha all of the time before I learned he passed away. In fact, he passed more than five years, though for months in 2015 I listened to his warm, smooth voice tell stories of jazz greats unaware he was not live in the KKJZ studio.

I’m not sure if KJazz still airs his older recordings like it did in 2015, and it doesn’t matter. I’m able to listen to his five hour sets thanks to this archive.

“As we approach the third hour…”

Intentionalities and Backlash (real + perceived)

I am really working on being more intentional with my actions and words, and I’m finding it cuts more than one way. It clears more up misunderstandings, but it’s also forcing me to become more vulnerable; I have to clearly state my position, often times that includes stating my underlining beliefs and feelings behind the position. This is frighting. I’m not sure if being more vulnerable will manifest itself in making me even less emotive as a way of trying to protect myself. That need for self protection, and the potential issues it causes – misunderstandings and missed opportunities and connections – is what led me here. I don’t know. I know I want to be better to myself and the world, even if my actions have no bearing on the world.

I’m trying to stay keenly aware of how, when, and where I express myself.

(I also hope this leads me to write more. Maybe this should all remain private. Even for most of you to have read this, you went through a two step process.)

HAaa, okay racists…

These are my final days in Korea, and I must say, America has not disappointed from afar. I watched as America made Donald Trump president.  (I voted for Hillary Clinton even from Korea.) I watched as he appointed racist after racist to positions. I simply watched – even though I had the ability to ignore, I couldn’t. As an American, I love America and want it to its best self. And truly, that’s all black Americans have ever wanted. We (like all peoples in America) wanted the same rights and privileges white males enjoy in America. Some nearly 400 hundreds since William Tucker, it still has yet to happen. Instead, we have race riots in 2017 because white people elected a racist, sexist, xenophobe to be president with his homophobic VP attached all to protect white their perceived supremacy.

I look forward to my return home. I just wish white people would understand that what happened in Charlottesville is as American as apple pie. Until white America addresses white supremacy and the legacy of slavery, these things will continue happen.

 

P.S. – One of my favorite scenes in cinema is the opening shot of The Godfather.

America America: US Women’s Gymnastic Team

This seems to have not been a huge talking point for many, but for me, the most spectacular thing about the 2016 USA Women’s Gymnastic Team, outside of their domination, is their diversity. The team is comprised of a Latina, two black women, a Jewish woman, and a white woman. It’s beautiful to see. What’s more, is that is seems that all of our women teams do far better than our male teams, and this is not just in Rio so far. The USWNT (Soccer) has won three World Cups, could have been easily been four. The USWNT (Basketball) has won the last five Olympic Golds, and no one thinks it won’t be six straight this year. (Remember the 2004 men’s team?)

The USWNT (Basketball) is so superior that Brittney Griner is looking for individual accolades, which I have no issue with. I hope she gets it. Although this summer Williams Sister had an Olympics to forget, collectively or indivdually they have been more successful than any male tennis player the US has produced in the last 20 years. I agree with Ian Crouch of the New Yorker, Serena is the greatest American athlete in my lifetime. Mind you, he wrote that before she turned in one of the great years in sports history.

The only men’s team that is as dominate in their sport as our women’s teams seems to be our swimming and basketball teams. All of this is not to say that US men’s teams offer nothing. They do, even in mediocrity. But when we will start caring about our women’s teams in non Olympics or World Cup summers? When will we support the WNBA more? I do not understand why more Angelinos a Sparks game at the Staples Center? You can at least beat heat! There are tickets for less than $10 on StubHub. It’s cheaper and more entertaining than your best summer flick. And finally, the USWNT should earn as much as the perpetually disappointing men’s team.

[Much of the US women’s dominance is sports can be traced to Title IX further proving that you can legislate equally. Anyway…]

I’m proud of our Women’s Gymnastic Team. Thank you Aly Raisman, Madison Kocian, Laurie Hernandez, Simone Biles, and Gabby Douglas. They, along with other women athletes, represent what makes America America.

America on this Christmas

Earlier this week, I decided to remove myself from the social media platforms Twitter and Instagram as well as not reading US news as regularly as I had been. For those of you who do not know, I currently live in South Korea. I’ve been here four months, and in those four months, I’ve had the displeasure of staying highly connected to the events and issues back in States. I’ve learned more about Donald Tump, his racism, and the racists that support him than anyone should, but Trump is just the current face of American’s Hate. You can take a page out of any of the Republican candidate’s book and see the hate. This is not a Republican issue. Only 19 Democratic voted against H.B. – 158 . One of these who voted in favor of the bill was a Loretta Sanchez (D – CA) who is currently running for soon to be vacant Senators seats. Discrimination is bi-partisan, cross cultural issue.

Yesterday, I read more swill lobbed at dead 12-year old boy, and I am tired. I’m tired of dealing with America’s ills while living in another country. The worse part is that my entire life has been lived trying to best mitigate these acts on my mind and body. It is a part of me. From the time my father lamented that time he took his hands off the steering wheel when he got pulled over, wishing he had not done that, while indirectly warning me against making the same mistake to getting pulled over only to have my friend in the passenger seat reach to turn down the radio and me screaming at her not to move. The trauma is deep, and the fear is real. Still, I’ve been fortunate. I have male, class, and hetero privilege has helped me. (Imagine if I were a poor, queer, person of color? Again, we don’t have to imagine.)

I’m 31.  Until recently, I lived in America my entire life. I no longer have to be a passive participant in the hate and fear that fuel America. I do not have to be one click away from being reminded how little America values People of Color.

I’ll show myself out.

John Woodrow Wilson

With the recent attention shone on former President and racist (like many US President have been), I cannot help but think of a man who who named after him: John Woodrow Wilson.

I first saw John Wilson’s work while a student at Morehouse College studying African-American History. Naturally, I was drawn to Black Art. HBCUs are the best place to view black art. While black artists were shunned and derided by the white community, Black Colleges accepted and supported them. This is why so many HBCUs have great works by Black artists (like Hale Woodruff).

One of the schools with a great collection of  black art is Clark Atlanta University. I recall walking into their art gallery one afternoon and seeing a painting of a black man in his US Naval uniform, his face down in arm folded arm on his desk as if he were weeping. His hand clinched an American flag. Mr. Wilson painted this image of his Brother who fought in the Second World War only to come home to same racism he left. His story is not unique, yet Mr. Wilson articulated this in a illustration. I will never forget seeing that image and how it rocked me. Instantly, John Woodrow Wilson became my favorite artist.

As time passed, I learned that many black artists like Wilson, and the late Elizabeth Catlett, left the United States for Mexican to study art. The colors and broad hands are indicative of 20th century Mexican artists.

I was most recently visited Atlanta May of 2014, and I made it a point to visit Clark Atlanta’s Art Gallery. I had to see this work again. To my disappoint, the gallery was installing a new exhibit. I never the painting.

Mr. Wilson’s work has never escaped me. I placed his work “Negro Woman,”as well as “Negro Man” by Henry Ossawa Tanner, in my film Sex Makes It More Important. (I bought a replica of  Mr. Tanner’s “Negro Man” after living with three white guys and not seeing an black folks on the walls of our apartment. It was the best 3am purchase I have ever made. I even brought it with me to Korea. And that image of “Negro Woman” comes from a miss opportunity I had to see Mr. Wilson in person in 2006 or 2007 at Clark Atlanta. I was able to preserve the pamphlet from the event.)

The Cosby Show once featured an episode in which the Cosby’s bought Black Art. I hope to one day purchase an original work of John Woodrow Wilson. Hopefully, it’ll be the same work I saw as a student trying to understand my place as black man in this world.

---

 

I wrote this early Friday (11/27) morning – before NY Times published this: Black Artists and the March Into the Museum

 

Thanksgiving 2014

I spent this Thanksgiving in Korea. It was my first abroad, but not my first not in LA. I spend several college Thanksgivings in Atlanta be my Morehouse brethren, and many of those proved to be the most memorable. There was the Turkducken year. Also, the year my sister visited me and our brother as, again, Ben and I teamed up to deep fry a Turkey. So, missing out on Thanksgiving festivities in Compton is nothing new, however it is different this year. I AM IN KOREA. And my family simply communicated with me via Kakao, and it reminded me of last year.

Last year, as usual the Cowboys were losing and I watched hoping they could somehow mount a comeback, however unlikely it seemed. I sat in my grandmother’s house, in the lovely chair that usually asks as an Ambien, watching her busy between the kitchen and her couch. My father arrived after me and my sister, and we for some reason we started talking about Mike Brown. For my sister and I, it was obvious. Mike Brown should not have been killed. He should have able to spend Thanksgiving with his family as I was. He should have been able to watch my Cowboys lose like the rest of America was able to. It was just that simple. My father, on the other hand, did not think it was so simple. Rather, he thought is even simpler. He talked about how if Mike Brown had not been high that dreadful day, he would not have been killed. “What?!??!” is all I could muster. Did my father, the most progressive person in my family not me, just echo a Fox News talking point? Did he really just blame Mike Brown for his own death? My sister and I immediately went in. We pestered him with every variation of “what the fuck are you talking about?!?!” followed by “do you know what you are saying?” All we received back were snarky and hurtful responses re-iterating how that entire interaction started because Mike Brown was high. This is not true, as I pointed out. The officer did not know Mike Brown was high, if he were actually high. Finding weed in one’s system does not mean that person is actually experiencing a high. Furthermore, the officer did not know Mike Brown was a suspect in strong arm robbery, so my father’s responses rang hollow.

He then proceeded to talk about many of the issues Black folks face would be alleviated if we would stop using drugs. Again, I preceded to highlight the fact that black folk do not do drugs at a great rate than whites.  These facts fell upon deaf ears. His response was “we are not white,” and he is right, however expecting black folks to be superhuman is wrong and setups an impossible goal: to be superhuman and not suffer from sins of the flesh like, well, humans. The idea that black folks are more or should be more human than whites is stained in racists expectation as thinking we are less than humans.

By this point of the evening, the Cowboys were – no longer in the game, and my patience was gone. My sister was able to handle this better than I was. She articulated her frustrated with our father fairly exactly. “I’m surprised by you…” she repeated. She was surprised because she too saw our father as the much more liberal counterpart to our mother. I mean much more liberal. As awful as it sounds, we used to jokingly call our mother “baby Hitler” because she spent time as a youth in Germany, but mostly because of her draconian perspective on moral matters (which was steeped in Christianity). On this one, our mother abstained. She tried to play peace keeper, and I tried to oblige with my not so convincing “I’m done. I’m going to ignore to you” statements, but I was not done, and I could not ignore him. I could not ignore him because he seemed to to take delight his perspective. Often, he chuckle as and laugh at his asinine comments. I could not ignore him because he was and is wrong. I could not ignore him because he was supposed to be on my side and understand how systemic racism works. This was the same man who turned my first grade report on Christopher Columbus into a father/son dissertation about how Columbus slaughtered a race of people. This is the man who, upon witnessing me call my brother a “nigger” in elementary school had me look the word up only to find it was not in the dictionary we owned. That weekend we went to the bookstore and bought another dictionary that did have the proper definition for the word. And this was the same man, so wrote an entire book on how police reform should look in the City of Compton. Yet last Thanksgiving, he was someone else. He was the person I least wanted to share a room with. I could not sit there, watch the Cowboys get manhandled by the Eagles (of all teams) and listen to my father’s silly justification of Mike Brown’s death. I could not. I could not because I have had police pull guns on my and friends after following us for more than half a mile, though we committed no violation. I could not because I sat in the kitchen of the apartment I shared with three others listening to Ferguson DA blame Mike Brown for his own death while disparaging protestors who fought for answers. I sat in my kitchen, delaying what should have been a delightful night of playing basketball with friends to listen to nothing happen. Eventually I would play basketball, but not before weeping alone in my parked truck, just out of the orange light shone from the street lamp next to the park I would play a very distracted night of basketball. Mike Brown was dead, and this officer is saying he would have not changed a thing. This is what was on my mind as my father blames Mike Brown for his death. This time, I was not in my apartment. I was in my grandmother’s house on Thanksgiving. One of the few safe havens I felt I had in LA, but today was not the day.

To my grandmother’s grave disappointed, I decided to leave before the food was served and go to my aunt’s house where my mother’s mother and family were. I apologized to my angered grandmother who surely thought my actions were silly and childish, but I had to protect my self.

So much has been made in recent months about microagressions by those who do not understand how difficult and exhausting it is to be black. Any safe space I can have, I take it. Korea has afforded me another layer of protection. I cannot image what is it like to be colored, a women, queer, and lower-class (if only I could imagine).

In the time since last Thanksgiving, I’ve grown to understand my father’s comments were those from a man who lived through two Watts riots. A man who, while in his youth, had issues with drug abuse. I still recall he and my uncle talking about how they would never see American Gangster because they lived through the heroin epidemic of the 70s and saw what it did to their community and people they knew. My father is opposed to drug use, recreational or not, and he wishes for black folk to not use drugs because he sees it as doing nothing but harm. I do not feel that way. I voted for California to decriminalize marijuana, and I’d do it again. He voted against, and he’ll do so again, even after I pointed out how these drugs laws have effected black lives.

I do not fault my father for last Thanksgiving nor his views. We are all a product of our experiences. I do wish he had never shared his perspective, I cannot lie. I could have reacted differently, perhaps.

Later that night when my father arrived at my aunt’s house, I was still very angry, and he knew this enough to provide space. Eventually, it became water under the bridge. I only recalled last year because I am in Korea; though, I’m sure had I watched the Cowboys get thrashed by the Panthers at my grandmothers house this year, I would have been reminded of last year.

Compton College Film/Video Podcast: Ep. 3 – Wild Tales

Compton College Film/Video Podcast Ep. 3 – Wild Tales.

“Ep. 3 features Film 110 students Rodrigo, Ruben, Joaquin, Tiffany, and Anthony as we discuss Wild Tales (Relatos Salvajes) by Damián Szifrón.”

via Ep. 3 – Wild Tales.

F*cking With White People: Bachelor/Bachelorette Effect

I’ve been meaning to write this for sometime, but tonight feels like the perfect night.

Bachelor/Bachelorette Effect: when a white person “has not problem dating a person of color” only to never seriously date one. A great example of this found in Season 10 of The Bachelorette. That season, Andi Dorfman, a Southern Jewish police officer with a J.D., eliminated Marquel Martin, one of two black contestants, was eliminated during episode five. (The other black contestant was Ron Worrell. He left after episode three.) I recall the disappointment on his face (and in his tears) upon being eliminated. I could only think “what did you expect to happen? She is a Southern Jewish police officer with a J.D.” The chances of her choosing to date, let alone engage, a black man is slim to none, but still Marquel believed it could happened. He chose to trust her and hope for the best. I am not saying a Southern Jewish police officer with a J.D. wouldn’t seriously date a black person, I am saying it is unlikely; however, I’ve found the prospects of dating white people in general slim, especially is the person of color if race conscious, no matter how liberal the white partner is.

The Bachelor/Bachelorette Effect is when a perfectly well intentioned white person dates a person of color only end the arrangement for no apparent reason. After so many dates, this usually “liberal/open-minded” white person loses interest in said person of color. I know many of you are thinking “this just happens with dating,” which is true, but the difference between dating  and interracial dating is the cultural and societal barriers that are often unacknowledged and unspoken. For instance, the person of color may bring up a specific incident of racial profiling or racial injustice that the white person does not have to deal with. This realization of not having to deal may reinforce a feeling of “I don’t have to deal with this ‘I’m white.'” They are right. They often choose to opt out.

Well intentioned white folk, do us folk of color a favor and do not pretend you are open-minded and willing to date person of color. Be honest with yourself and with us.

One of the best films that deals with the complexities of interracial relationships Ali: Fear Eats Soul.