mangozeen: race

Showing posts with label race. Show all posts

Sunday, October 11, 2026

40 Meter Mad Dash - Marangu, Tanzania - 2019 Kili Initiative Team # 22

Tanzania was greener than Kenya, where the Kil Team 2019 had spent the last ten days. Kenya was all dry plains. Here was jungle.

The country has been ruled by socialists for decades. The people looked the same, but I was the only M’zoongoo or white man in sight. I was blind to many things and blessed by an accepting ignorance. I was just a human being as are we all, although none of the 2019 Kili Initiative Team were native to this country.

We were Kenyans and Americans. Not Tanzanians. None of that mattered. We had come to Marangu to open our minds after a trek across the Maasai Plains and prepared our bodies to climb Mount Kilimanjaro. The mountain was always above us in the trees.

The Top of Africa.

The trees of Marangu blocked any view of the Great Mountain of Caravans.

We passed through the town. The market was busy. More people than we had seen for the last days in the plains. Bars operated on the right. Music blared from everywhere.

"That's the size of my old hometown." Milton, Massachusetts, had many trees too, but not as green as those in Marangu. "It used to have no bars."

"No bars?" Such a thought was sacrilege to Ma'we, although he was an upstanding member of his church.

"A dry town from the Prohibition of the 1920s to the year 2000."

"We will visit this town later. They have many bars. I know a good one. " Ma'we said, respecting my research of beers around the world.

Five minutes later, we turned into the Marangu Hotel.

The courtyard was tidy. I was the first person off the bus. I ran to the WC. Travel had not been kind to my stomach and lower tract. When I emerged from the WC, the KI team were heading to their respective cabins. I received keys from the reception. Larry stood outside next to a cut-out of Kobe Bryant in the lobby.

"Kobe is my man."

"He beat my Celtics in 2010." I blamed the loss more on my friend AP coming into Frank's Lounge at the 4th Quarter and asking what was the score. AP was not a sports fan. A curse.

"His name means something in Swahili."

"I'll find out," I replied and recalled the Laker star had spent time here in college contributing his talents to various youth and woman groups.

Two older women led me to my cottage.

I tipped the girls carrying my bags and lay on the bed. The Maasai trek's sleeping arrangement had been tents and sleeping bags on bare ground. I had learned to sweep the earth of stones before the porters set up the tents. Every night a small stone would wander beneath the tent to disturb the princess' rest like a pea like in the fairy tale "The Princess and the Pea" by Hans Christian Andersen. I was no princess. I hadn't been on a mattress in ten days. I fell asleep for forty-five minutes.

It felt incredibly good. I searched for 'Kobe' in my phrasebook and found ‘sea tortoise’ before dropping back into ZZZ land.

I woke to the ringing of my cell phone. Tim Challen, the Kili Initiative director and a friend from my pilgrimage to Lhasa in 1995, was calling from Geneva.

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Better," I lied without shame. I was exhausted from the trek, yet ready from the climb up Kili.

"I'm at the airport, waiting for my flight. I'll be there tomorrow to make sure you aren't dying."

"Hopefully I'll be alive, otherwise feed me to the lions. There is no honor in being devoured by hyenas."

"It won't come to that, but please stay away from any strange foods, especially goat stew."

Disregarding his warnings, I had braved eating goat stew on the plains. Forever foolhardy. My digestive tract was paying the price for an old man’s arrogance.

"I won't even listen to any Rolling Stones' songs from GOAT'S HEAD SOUP. I'm looking forward to seeing you."

That was the truth. We were longtime friends.

I took a hot shower and dressed in clean clothes, then wandered across the lawn to where Jackman, Ubah, and a young American boy kicked a football. Soccer wasn't my game and I walked to the bar. The pub door was shut until noon. I was pleased to see the name. PETE'S BAR.

I had rarely been a Pete, but was happy to think that later on I would be drinking there.

Jackman came over to ask, "You want to kick with us?"

"Football is not really my game. I'm more into basketball." Never really good, except on defense adn my name on Swest 4th Street was 'Brick'/ A two-fold meaning. One for my blown lay-ups. # 2 for my defense.

"That is because he is a slow M'zee," shouted Fast Steve from the distance.

"I am not slow, you Kobe."

Jackman and Ubah laughed heartily and the young white boy asked, "What's so funny?"

"Kobe is turtle in Swahili."

"I am not turtle, M'zee."

"I am not slow, you Kobe. I accept I am an old man. You should accept you are slow. Let's have a race. 40 meters." I handed my phone to Larry, who looked hurt learning Kobe meant a turtle.

"Kobe's no turtle."

But neither was Kobe a saint. He sought to win with any means possible.

"You don't have to tell me. He killed us in 2010." I added nothing. I was no fan of Kobe. He had purposely submarined Kendricks Perkins in the finals, tearing out his ACLs, plus he had snitched on Shaq for seeing women on the road after he had been accused of rape. I turned to Fast Steve. “I’m ready. You, me, and everyone else."

"You really think you can beat me."

"I bet $3 the old M'zoongoo will beat you." $3 was the price of a Guinness at Pete's Bar. I took out my money. I was at least forty years older than Steve. "Let's go, Kobe."

The Vegas odds on my winning this race were 1000 to 1, except we were in Marangu and not Vegas. I knew Anything could happen.

We lined up for the race. The football was the finish line.

Larry called out, "Ready, set, go."

The five of us leapt from the line.

Me less fast than the young'uns. Me as Mzee M'zoongoo. An old white man.

I feel behind with ease. My sixty-six year old legs was deaf to my fifteen-year-old heart.

Jackman won the gold. Ubah took the silver. Youngblood grabbed the bronze. The race wasn't over. I caught up with Fast Steve. Something was wrong with Fast Steve.

He pulled up lame. A victory for the old man. Horrah M’zee.

I was fourth. Not a medal winner, but not last like Steve.

Jackman and I celebrated our victories.

Larry showed me the VDO.

The thrill of victory.

Fast Steve said the race had been fixed and challenged me to a Maasai warrior survival contest. A good man. He joked about his loss.

Seven days later, the KI team 2019 stood on the saddle of Kilimanjaro. The wind blew hard and blew forever in all directions of the compass. We were we and we were in the Heart of Africa, the mother of us all.

Thursday, September 17, 2026

Yo Da Man - 2020

“Hey you know something people
I’m not black
But there’s a whole lots a times
I wish I could say I’m not white.”
I have lived by these words from the Mothers of Invention’s FREAK OUT LP, which I stole that record from Zayre discount store in 1969. I was working at the same store. I took the LP as a goof along with Wes Montgomery’s DAY IN THE LIFE. My crime was witnessed by the skinny assistant manager. Mitch didn’t like me. The girl at the cosmetic counter was sweet on me. Sookie and I made out at the store’s Xmas party. She liked outlaws and boosting that album felt like a crime until Mitch called my father.
“Pay for the music.”
I obeyed my father. Charges were dropped by the store. Mitch fired me. Sookie and I had a thing. Those were good times.
Occasionally I play TROUBLE EVERYDAY to hear those infamous words. “But there’s a whole lots a times I wish I could say I’m not white.”
I cheered the Panthers, the SLA, Tommie Smith’s clinched fist. I’ve danced in Harlem. I played basketball on West 4th Street. I smoked crack with dealers on Avenue C. I was no whitey, but my non-whitey status was only in my mind for blacks saw me for who I was.
An ofay honkie wanting to pass.
It took a long time to realize that I was not alone in wanting to burn my race card.
Whites wanting to be black and blacks wanting to be white and that goes for the poor wanting to be rich.
Few rich want to be poor, because as Karl Marx said, “Money’s properties are my – the possessor’s – properties and essential powers. Thus, what I am and am capable of is by no means determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy for myself the most beautiful of women. Therefore I am not ugly, for the effect of ugliness – its deterrent power – is nullified by money. I, according to my individual characteristics, am lame, but money furnishes me with twenty-four feet. Therefore I am not lame. I am bad, dishonest, unscrupulous, stupid; but money is honored, and hence its possessor. Money is the supreme good, therefore its possessor is good. Money, besides, saves me the trouble of being dishonest: I am therefore presumed honest. I am brainless, but money is the real brain of all things and how then should its possessor be brainless? Besides, he can buy clever people for himself, and is he who has power over the clever not more clever than the clever? Do not I, who thanks to money am capable of all that the human heart longs for, possess all human capacities? Does not my money, therefore, transform all my incapacities into their contrary?”
You da man, Karl.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it can rent it and if the OJ trial proved anything, it was that even a black man can buy justice in America if he has enough money.
Let’s all go fishing.
Ice Ice baby.

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Much more to come.

Sunday, February 15, 2026

Washington's Birthday - 2015

Today America celebrates President's Day to honor past presidents, but especially George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. New York only recognizes George Washington on his birthday of February 22, 1732 almost three hundred years ago. Gilbert Stuart painted the Father of the Nation as a white man as had countless other artists, however historically many English male colonists sired children with female Africans, because white women couldn't survive the climate or the summer fevers. Not all of the forefathers were white. They were only painted white. Was George Washington white?

The Virginian owned 123 slaves.

His views on slavery changed through the years.

"Here is not a man living who wishes more sincerely than I do, to see a plan adopted for this abolition of slavery but there is only one proper and effectual mode by which it can be accomplished, and that is by Legislative authority."

-GEORGE WASHINGTON, 1786

According to mountvernon.com Washington also explored ways to reduce the number of enslaved people at Mount Vernon without selling them. Most ideas involved renting or selling land to finance an emancipation. He was unable to execute any of these plans during his lifetime.

Were it not then, that I am principled against selling negroes, as you would do cattle in the market, I would not, in twelve months from this date, be possessed of one, as a slave.

-GEORGE WASHINGTON, 1794

Only the year before he had a slave woman whipped for refusing to work.

Her name was Charlotte.

There was no good in slavery.

No good in owning slaves.

Washington freed them all at his death in 1799.

Slavery remained the GM of the South until 1865 and thereafter with the Jim Crow laws subjected Africans to enslavement of another kid.

Father of a Nation.

No slave owner can claim that title.

Us against them.

Thursday, February 1, 2024

Mr. Wonderful And Race

The only way to cure racism is love.

And lots of it.

Sammie Davis Jr. knew the antidote and he lived in lynching days.

Marilyn Monroe was his friend and acted as a beard for his relationship with Kim Novak.

Their affair almost got him killed by the orders of Herbert Cohn, a gangster Hollywood producer owning Novak's contract.

His sham marriage to Loray White saved him

Sammie needed no protection to wed May Britt.

A Swedish actress.

Swedes aren't American, but Mr. Wonderful was America at its best.

A Man of the people.

Sunday, June 2, 2013

METHUSALAH'S MAD DASH by Peter Nolan Smith

Last year I read that senior athletes competed against each other in a variety of track and field events. I had to ask myself, "Could I beat a 90 year-old in the 100-meter dash?"

The current record by a 95 year-old was 22 seconds.

In Brooklyn I talked my friend AP into officiating my race against age. He had a stop watch and we walked over to the local track and paced out 100 meters.

"You know that you have a thirty-year advantage on 90 year-olds." AP was younger than me by ten years, but he had refused my challenge to a race. He had a bad knee.

"I have to start somewhere."

I leaned forward in a racing crouch imitating Tommie Smith, who was my favorite runner in the 60s. He won a gold medal for the 400 meters at the Mexico City Olympics in 1968. This race was infamous for his black power salute on the medal podium. The sprinter had to be about in his late 60s, but I was racing a clock and not my hero.

AP shouted at the end of the track.

"Ready, set, go."

I dashed from the starting line. My legs felt like they belonged to another person. They wouldn't go any faster.

I counted the seconds. 50 yards in 8 seconds. 75 in 15. 100 in 20.

I cross the finish and AP checked the watch.

"21 seconds."

"Damn, I did it." I had beaten the best of the 90 year-olds.

Next stop was against the 80 year-olds and for this contest I will train like a motherfucker, because some of those old geezers cheat with steroids. I will use none and no asterisks will mar my bio or race record, for I'm as pure as the wind-driven slush.

Which is pretty good for a 60 year-old man.

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Racist Motherfuckers

I am a white male over the age of 30. My family came from pure Caucasian stock. My father's side dated back to the Mayflower and my mother's ancestor were Celts from the West of Ireland. Other than a strain of Moorish blood from the survivors of the Spanish Armada intermingling with the Irish of Galway I am as white as they get in this country. My home state of Maine is also one of the whitest in the nation, yet the 20th Maine stopped the slave staters dead in their tracks at Gettysburg. I am the last of my kind to be this white. My oldest sister married a Jew, my younger sister is wed with a black man, both my brothers have wives of Italian descent, and my children are of Thai descent. America is not 100% white if the children of the most white amonst us are not white. Which is why I get upset with how the Drudgereport.com and Fox News and the GOP play the race card year after year expecting us whiteys to turn on our young. Well fuck you, that ain't gonna play that way. Today Drudge report featured the folllowing; REPORT: Obama supporters step up riot threats... Black pastor receives death threats after reversing support... Black Americans still back Obama despite steep plunge in their economic fortunes... Not play the Ace of Spades? Damn straight they are. Racist motherfuckers. That's all they are, because they know that they aren't really 100%. No one is, except for me and mine, but then we are the last of our kind.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

Yo Da Man

"Hey you know something people
I'm not black
But there's a whole lots a times
I wish I could say I'm not white."

I have lived by these words from the Mothers of Invention's FREAK OUT LP, which I stole that record from Zayre discount store in 1969. I was working at the same store. I took the LP as a goof along with Wes Montgomery's DAY IN THE LIFE. My crime was witnessed by the skinny assistant manager. Mitch didn't like me. The girl at the cosmetic counter was sweet on me. Sookie and I made out at the store's Xmas party. She liked outlaws and boosting that album felt like a crime until Mitch called my father.

"Pay for the music."

I obeyed my father. Charges were dropped by the store. Mitch fired me. Sookie and I had a thing. Those were good times. Occasionally I play TROUBLE EVERYDAY to hear those infamous words. "But there's a whole lots a times I wish I could say I'm not white."

I cheered the Panthers, the SLA, Tommie Smith's clinched fist. I've danced in Harlem. I played basketball on West 4th Street. I smoked crack with dealers on Avenue C. I was no whitey, but my non-whitey status was only in my mind for blacks saw me for who I was. An ofay honkie wanting to pass. It took a long time to realize that I was not alone in wanting to burn my race card. Whites wanting to be black and blacks wanting to be white and that goes for the poor wanting to be rich.

Few rich want to be poor, because as Karl Marx said, "Money’s properties are my – the possessor’s – properties and essential powers. Thus, what I am and am capable of is by no means determined by my individuality. I am ugly, but I can buy for myself the most beautiful of women. Therefore I am not ugly, for the effect of ugliness – its deterrent power – is nullified by money. I, according to my individual characteristics, am lame, but money furnishes me with twenty-four feet. Therefore I am not lame. I am bad, dishonest, unscrupulous, stupid; but money is honored, and hence its possessor. Money is the supreme good, therefore its possessor is good. Money, besides, saves me the trouble of being dishonest: I am therefore presumed honest. I am brainless, but money is the real brain of all things and how then should its possessor be brainless? Besides, he can buy clever people for himself, and is he who has power over the clever not more clever than the clever? Do not I, who thanks to money am capable of all that the human heart longs for, possess all human capacities? Does not my money, therefore, transform all my incapacities into their contrary?"

You da man, Karl. Money can't buy happiness, but it can rent it and if the OJ trial proved anything, it was that even a black man can buy justice in America if he has enough money.

Let's all go fishing.

Ice Ice baby.