Brother West (27 page)
Analyses of my relationships with women could go on endlessly. My brother Cliff has his point of view. Close friends like Tavis have theirs. My own perspective is that, whatever the reasons, I was unsuccessful in maintaining marriages three different times. Each began with dedication and hope. Each ended with the recognition that it simply wasn’t working. Each began in love and ended in love.
The basic problem with my love relationships with women is that my standards are so high—and they apply equally to both of us. I seek full-blast mutual intensity, fully-fledged mutual acceptance, full-blown mutual flourishing, and fully felt peace and joy with each other. This requires a level of physical attraction, personal adoration, and moral admiration that is hard to find. And it assumes a depth of trust and openness for a genuine soul-sharing with a mutual respect for a calling to each other and to others. Does such a woman exist for me? Only God knows and I eagerly await this divine unfolding. Like Heathcliff and Catherine’s relationship in Emily Bronte’s remarkable novel Wuthering Heights or Franz Shubert’s tempestuous piano Sonata No. 21 in B flat (D.960), I will not let life or death stand in the way of this sublime and funky love that I crave!
The words of Brother Marvin bear repeating. He said it better than I ever could:
And when we stopped the hands of time
You set my soul on fire
My one desire was to love you
And think of you with pride
And keep you satisfied
Oh baby, we could not bear the mental strain
Elleni Gebre Amlak set my soul on fire. I’ll always think of her with pride. It pains me to this day that I somehow couldn’t stay with her. She is a magnificent woman. But the mental strain broke down our bond, and the result, in spite of the deep love, was a divorce that left me with a broken heart and a busted bank account.
T
HE BLUESMAN, BROKE OR NOT
,
keeps on keeping on. When it comes to money, by now you know that this particular bluesman has always been funny. I’ve had folk come up to me and say, “Brother West, I’ll never forget the time you reached into your pocket and gave me $300 cause I couldn’t pay the rent.” And the funny thing is, I was behind on my own rent. If I have it and somebody else needs it, it’s theirs. Beyond the money woes, though, there was work to do, songs to sing, books to write, struggles to wage.
As the ’90s neared a close, I had the unadulterated joy of collaborating with my dear sister Sylvia Ann Hewlett. For five long years, she and I collaborated on a seminal text called
The War Against Parents,
a defense of the ultimate non-market activity— parenting—in a market-driven culture. Nothing, we argued, is more crucial than loving, caring, and nurturing our precious children in the face of materialism, hedonism, and narcissism. I worked with her National Parenting Association in local branches across the nation. Her family is family, and I love them dearly.
I have always believed that I am who I am because somebody loved me. The love saturation that I received from my parents has been the wind at my back throughout my life. My decision to highlight the delicate and difficult challenge of parenting is my tribute to the supreme parenting that I received. There is a sense in which so much hurt in the world is attributable to unsupported, frustrated, or neglectful parenting. The decline of concern and decay of care for children is a fundamental feature in contemporary society. If we do not address it with personal care and public policy the future looks grim.
In 1998, the same year of
The War Against Parents
, I was blessed to publish with the grand philosopher Roberto Mangabeira Unger
The Future of American Progressivism,
a book based on our course taught at Harvard Law over a number of years. Unger, of Brazilian origin, is a passionate lover of truth and justice, and one of the world’s unrivaled public intellectuals. Around this time, I was surprised by a request to offer my opinion in the field of pop culture. The request came from Warren Beatty. He called me early one morning from Hollywood to say that he had just finished a film called
Bulworth
and wasn’t sure whether to release it.
“I’d be grateful if you could take a look at it, professor,” he said.
“I wish I could, but my time is tight and I don’t see how I could get out there.”
“I’ll come to you, and I’ll bring the film.”
“When?”
“I’ll fly out on a private jet this morning, buy out a movie theater in Copley Square, and we can watch it there tonight.”
That’s exactly what happened. The other invited guests were Norman Mailer and his wife. When the film was over, Warren turned to me and asked the $64,000 question, “Should I release it?”
I didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely,” I said. “It’s a fascinating critique of capitalism and market-driven politics. I think it’s provocative and needs to be seen.”
Warren was relieved. Afterwards, he, the Mailers, and I talked our heads off till three in the morning in the bar of the Four Seasons Hotel, dissecting everything from German philosophy to South Bronx hip-hop.
In a similar vein, my dear brother Will Smith, whom I met at the Million Man March, called me to meet in Boston just prior to the premier of his film
Ali
. We could not stop talking. It could have been hours. It could have been days. We dialogued along with his beautiful wife Jada and his gracious mother-in-law the pivotal role of Muhammad Ali in the turbulent ’60s. I am no way surprised that Will is the biggest box office star of our time given his talent and determination.
A few years later, I had encounters with several major hip-hop figures. The first was with Sean Combs, aka P. Diddy. Serious criminal charges had been leveled against the brother, and he was at one of the low points of his life. His attorney, my dear friend Johnnie Cochran, Jr., called.
“Corn, Sean is in deep trouble. Could you possibly come to the courthouse and lend some moral support? Having a man of integrity like you, sitting right there next to him, is going to mean a lot to everyone.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I spent a number of days in the courthouse with Sean and his lovely mother.
“It’s going to all right, brother,” I told him. And it was. I was elated when Sean was acquitted.
I was also flattered when I was asked to help out Jay-Z. American Express was looking to put him in a major commercial, but they were being extremely cautious. That’s why they requested Geoffrey Canada, the founder of the historic Harlem Children’s Zone, and I meet with him. Next thing I knew I was kicking it at Jay-Z’s townhouse with the man himself. The three of us had a beautiful three-hour conversation. Not only did American Express give him the gig, but I wound up with a star guest at my seminar. And he wasn’t the only one. Jay-Z joined Toni Morrison and Phylicia Rashad in a discussion of the “Black Intellectual Tradition,” where he said that he was aspiring to be Plato to Biggie’s Socrates.
Another fascinating moment for me came when the Rosa Parks Foundation sued my dear brothers, OutKast, for defaming the name of Ms. Parks in the hip-hop duo’s popular song. The chorus said, “Ah-ha, hush that fuss. Everybody move to the back of the bus.” Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, among others, supported the foundation. Knowing the political sensitivity and poetic creativity of OutKast, I was convinced that they had been misunderstood. In no way were they demeaning Rosa Parks. My feeling was that OutKast was the victim of a certain intolerance when it came to hip-hop and rap. I went so far as to write a brief on their behalf. Happily, the suit was settled in a just manner.
O’H
ARE
A
IRPORT, AFTERNOON FLIGHT
to Houston. I was on my way to Texas to deliver the keynote address to a formal affair for black professionals. The minute I stepped on the plane I spotted Snoop Dogg and, just like that, announced publicly, “Lyrical genius on the plane!”
Snoop and I embraced.
“Snoop,” I said, “it’s a blessing to meet you. Your flow is a species of historical memory for me. The way you rap reflects the struggle of a great people. And there are several other things I love about you. First, I love your love for the Dramatics.”
“You got that right,” he said. “I was raised listening to them. And you know, there is a slight difference between folk who love the Dramatics and those who love the Temptations.”
“Yeah, it’s Stax versus Motown. We love both of them, but the Dramatics are a little funkier.”
“I’ll go with you on that.”
“I also want to offer congratulations to you and your son, Snoop. I just read how your coaching helped him win the state championship. But the main thing I want to tell you, man, is that I feel in your lyrical flow the spirit of Curtis Mayfield. In fact, my own calling is to keep alive the spirit and legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr., John Coltrane and Curtis.”
Snoop’s eyes lit up with astonishment. He called over one of his guys.
“Tell Brother West,” Snoop said, “the name of the one old-school cat who I never stop talking about, the one who moves me the most.”
“Curtis Mayfield,” his guy responded. “Man, you’ve been locked into Curtis ever since I’ve known you.”
At that moment, we couldn’t do anything but give each other another big hug.
“Are you performing in Houston?” I asked Snoop.
“Yes, tomorrow night. And I’d love to have you as my guest.”
“I’d love to be there, but I take a plane out early tomorrow morning. But, say, why don’t you be my guest at my lecture tonight?”
“I’m kinda jammed up, but I could swing by for fifteen minutes or so.”
That evening the top brass and black elite of Houston packed the hotel ballroom—men in tuxes, women in evening gowns. Lo and behold, just as I was walking up to the podium to speak, here comes Brother Snoop and his posse, dressed in classic hip-hop style. I acknowledged his presence and proceeded to lecture on the rich tradition of struggle for freedom in black history. After fifteen minutes, I saw that Snoop still hadn’t left. After twenty-five minutes, the brother was still sitting there. And then, amazingly enough, when I had completed my talk, some seventy minutes after I had begun, there was Snoop, deeply engrossed. I then invited him to the stage.
“I’m going to take the wise words of Professor West,” he said, “and not just walk with them, but run with them. Run, run, run.”
J
AMES
B
ALDWIN SAID IT BEST
in
No Name in the Street.
I used Brother Baldwin’s quote at the start of a book,
Democracy Matters
, that I’d begun writing after my marriage with Elleni had dissolved:
“To be an Afro-American … is to be in the situation, intolerably exaggerated, of all those who have ever found themselves part of a civilization which they could in no wise honorably defend—which they were compelled, indeed, endlessly to attack and condemn— and who yet spoke out of the most passionate love, hoping to make the kingdom new, to make it honorable and worthy of life.”
Writing
Democracy Matters
—superbly edited by Sister Emily Loose—brought me more joy than any other book I’ve done. I could literally feel the fire emanating from my pen to paper—since I’ve never owned or used a computer. We had reached the low point of the age of Reagan—the second Bush years—and I was full of righteous indignation. Most of the intellectuals, media, and politicians were duped by the “magic” of unregulated markets, militarism in the Middle East, and fewer liberties at home owing to the threat of terrorism. My blues sensibility of deep democracy led me to say we were on the brink of catastrophe—on the national and global fronts. Sadly, I was right.
Democracy Matters
lays bare my project more clearly than any other book I’ve written. And my grand attempt to weave the rich legacies of Melville and Emerson through the genius of Morrison and Baldwin in the deep democratic American grain still make me smile. Despite predictable neoconservative and neoliberal attempts to trivialize the book, it sold over 100,000 copies (reaching No. 5 on the
New York Times
bestseller list) and continues to influence many. The underlying thesis of the book is that the legacy of Martin Luther King, Jr. is the culmination of not only the democratic tradition in the USA but also the humanist tradition of Socrates and Jesus—Athens and Jerusalem. Needless to say, King is a Christian bluesman of the highest order! Like him, I try to be a prisoner of hope, a fanatic of fairness, and an extremist of love.
As the twentieth century, the bloodiest in human history, came to an end, I saw our market-driven, hypermaterialistic, consumption-craving culture in sorry shape. Right-wing demagogues were galvanizing their power and spreading their venom on the airwaves with ever-growing influence. For all its serious imperfections, the Clinton Era would soon look good next to the Bush Ice Age. Fear would freeze out hope. Fear would dominate American politics during the illegitimate regime of Bush the Younger. Small-minded bigotry, insensitivity to the poor, self-delusional arrogance in foreign policy, misguided overreaction to terrorist threats, a horrific war based on blatant lies, strategic miscalculations, and a frightfully xenophobic world view being perpetuated by an administration whose heartless neglect of its very own people in the face of natural disaster … the early years of the twenty-first century would challenge whatever hope we could muster. It seemed as if the dangerous dogmas of free-market fundamentalism, adventurous militarism, and myopic authoritarianism were strangling our fragile democracy at home. And abroad, I called for forging democratic identities in the Middle East. I highlighted progressive Jewish voices, such as Albert Einstein and Ahad Ha’am, and prophetic Islamic figures, like Mahmoud Mohamed Taha, who is the Muslim Gandhi.
I am in no way a mystic, since I cherish my unique individuality. Yet I do have a profound appreciation of mystery that transcends reason and fact. I acknowledge the human inadequacy of fully comprehending the unpredictable ways of life and the world. A nihilist would view time as loss, but I would also view time as gift— not only a taking but also a giving. My kind of negative capability fuses humility with a courage to endure the unknowable and the inexplicable with grace and dignity. Therefore, when I encounter overwhelming darkness, I still believe I can discern some light, even if it is at the end of the tunnel.