A little more than a year ago I spent too much time defending the great gaffe of radio talk show legend Don Imus. Recall that Mr. Imus, the curmudgeon par excellence, referred to the Rutgers University women's basketball team as "nappy headed hos." As stupid and adolescent as it was, it was not to my ears a racist remark. It was undoubtedly racially insensitive; it was dopey and unfunny and insulting, but it was not racist, especially when compared to what he said about the Rutgers opponents, also mostly African-Americans: he described them as "cute."
Context was everything in the Imus story, but the context, and all proportion, were largely ignored. And the context was really rather broad, extending far beyond Imus' microphone out to the hip hop culture, and even American Idol: contemporaneous to the Imus debacle, a black American Idol finalist innocently reported on the most-watched American TV series how she and her family never imagined such good luck would befall a "nappy haired girl."
But after all the ballyhoo and breast beating and moral posturing, after all the appeals for absolution, Don Imus is finally back on the airwaves. And in all honesty, I find his show simply, well, awful. It is dreadful.
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I was never a huge Imus fan. My interest, which was fraught with curiosity, was in his ability to attract such amazing guests: How did he manage to interview top celebs and heads of state? How did he so easily demystify the gods of culture and politics? News was often made on his show; John Kerry issued a mea culpa during the 2006 campaign season on the Imus show before appearing anywhere else.
But most of the time I was uncomfortable with his show, though I often loved what I learned from his guests. And, I admit, there were times, and not just a few, of comedic brilliance presented therein.
I defended Mr. Imus last year because I felt he was the victim of a crude double standard; I believed his silencing was a threat to free speech. But I shouldn't have been so quick to defend him.
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Here is something I very much resent about current race relations in the United States. If I say I am not a racist -- I am not a racist -- why must I turn to African-Americans for vindication? If I assert I haven't a racist bone in my body, why am I only permitted moral authority by blacks who judge me?
When Don Imus made his gaffe, his first reaction was to run to Al Sharpton, effectively begging him for absolution and affirmation: he sought a black man's imprimatur. But why? Why is any white man's racial moral health contingent on what someone else thinks? In a world where we hear much about not judging others, why is racial purity only the purview of blacks: why are the likes of Jeremiah Wright and Al Sharpton the only worthy priests to hear confession and offer absolution? Why are they judges? Why is my own self-assessment insufficient?
Don Imus declared immediately that he was not a racist, and then instantly doubted his own conviction. He ran to the priests of race, and they dispensed their great graces.
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Author Shelby Steele, a black intellectual born of a white mother, wrote in his book about Barack Obama,
A Bound Man, that Don Imus' response to his crisis was to run directly toward the "challengers" who control much of the African-American political bloc, seeking their blessing. Imus, or so Mr. Steele argued, was eager to regain his moral authority on race by beseeching blacks to return it to him. To Steele, Imus fell prey to white guilt, and would be the weaker for it. Imus became the great appeaser, the iconic placater.
But note what Mr. Steele says in this sentence that immediately precedes chapter 9, "The Iconic Negro":
"If Imus ever returns to the airways, his operation will no doubt be swathed in diversity."Mr. Steele could not have been more prescient. For that is exactly what Mr. Imus has done, and in the process, he has created a show that is paralyzed, insipid, self-conscious and humorless. His two African-American sidekicks are absolutely unfunny; I have not once laughed at a single one of their contributions. The show is stiff with fear; it is rife with scripted humor burdened by politically correct rubrics. Moreover, it is gratuitously obsequious: it is racially self-righteous to a didactic smugness. It is at times a sort of Sesame Street for grown-ups: "Today's lesson girls and boys ..." You get the idea. And it is not worth getting.
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When I think of great comedians, at least those who have made me laugh throughout my life, I think of people like Steven Wright, who is unquestionably my favorite comedian of all time. I loved Victor Borge and Red Skelton and Johnny Carson; I loved Steve Martin's stand-up and Jerry Seinfeld's simple deliveries.
But when I was a child I loved the zaniness of Sammy Davis Jr.; I remember telling my mother and sister that I
wanted to be Sammy Davis Jr. I also loved (I never missed a show) the inimitable Flip Wilson. Redd Foxx was another fave; and later in life I enjoyed Richard Pryor and Eddie Murphy (though their arena sets were usually too vulgar for me, as are some of Robin Williams' [a white guy, I know]).
The reason I share this is because as a child of the 1960s, I was raised virtually blind to race: I did not even think that Sammy Davis Jr. was black. I simply loved him. And Flip Wilson. And countless other black men and women who have blessed my soul, and made me laugh (or taught me something vital). Sadly, somewhere along the line I was forced to look at race, to see skin color. And yet because of many wonderful influences in my life, racism did not take hold. This despite those in America who see racism in every white face, who believe that whiteness is not merely emblematic of racism but is genetically imbued with racism.
Don Imus has placed two black comedians on his team, Karith Foster and Tony Powell, and they are not funny (white comic Rob Bartlett has not been particularly funny either). They are not even interesting. Sorry. But there is no suggestion here that they are humorless or uninteresting because they are black; blackness, after all, hardly comes through -- does it? -- the radio (I have watched the program on RFD-TV). They are uninteresting because they, as Thomas Sowell might say, appear to be "token blacks," placed as buffers for Imus' moral purity and watchdogs for all racial missteps. They sit around Imus almost like pets, even mascots (Sowell's word). They appear almost trapped and apprehensive; they look like they'd really rather be somewhere else.
For me, then, Don Imus' return represents more of what I hate about the "dialogue on race" in America. Imus's allegedly diverse staff is not about liberty or equality; there is something brutally oppressive about what Imus has done, is doing. It does not strike me as progressive, not one whit. And this is not only too bad, it is a bit ironic, because Imus has rather recently expressed surprise about all he is learning of race relations in America from such facilitators as Dick Gregory and Debra J. Dickerson. The irony is that there is no real dialogue, only a monologue. If Mr. Imus was really interested in dialogue, then his guest list would include both Shelby Steele and Thomas Sowell. I don't think either man has made an appearance. And they should appear -- regularly.
In the end, I am tired of the apparent cultural necessity of someone like Jesse Jackson, Dick Gregory, Jeremiah Wright or even Barack Obama coming to dispense the sacrament of racial absolution on me because of the color of my skin. If I say I love peas, I don't need a nutritionist to confirm my assertion. If I claim to love Bach, I don't need that claim descried by a baroque historian. If I say I am a fan of U2's Bono, Bono need not check in to see if I meet his standards. And if I claim I am not a racist, I don't need someone to ensure I am not deceiving myself. I can, after all, speak for my own heart.
Just some thoughts in this allegedly high time of racial dialogue in America.
Peace.
©Bill Gnade 2008/Contratimes. All Rights Reserved.
