c


 

 
 


To The So-Called Americanized African (In that order), First amongst equals,

this is my umpteenth attempt at trying to reach you, and it may very well be my last due to my
premonitions that you may not want to be reached. For the past six years I have been playing what seems to be
one of the most intense games of hide-and-seek, but not with anyone you¶d know, at least not personally; nor
physically. I¶ve found myself running down unpaved alleyways and weaving through dimly-lit city blocks
looking for Truth. And each attempt to reach you was to inform you that I have not yet found him, so unless he¶s
at your house, he is still missing.
Sitting over a plate of refried black beans, two soft fried eggs lightly peppered and enough plantains to
fulfill a monthly yearning, I found myself deeply involved in a conversation, probably much like that of Malcolm
and Martin¶s, if in fact that meeting actually took place. My comrade and I, she being more like Martin in times
of war, discussed Dubois¶ thoughts and Baraka¶s interpretations on the Sisyphus Complex and came up with this:
When Death came for the kidnapped Africans with its long, white reach, they chose to live, like Sisyphus. Going
against fate, they were sentenced to a hill. At the bottom of this hill, a perfectly round boulder would be placed
for the purpose of being pushed up the hill. When the top of the hill was reached, the boulder, each time without
fail, would roll to the bottom, which is where they¶d have to begin again.
This hill does not exist, at least not physically, my friend, nor does this boulder, but in your mind, and at
that place you go every morning cursing through the leftover dew and darkness and from which you return
cursing in sunshine most days, rain the others, this hill and boulder does exist and you, dear So-Called
Americanized African are Sisyphus. Please, friend, do not misunderstand my claims and offer yourself to death
once more as a solution, offer yourself to life. There is much more to living than that boulder.
I found myself in your home not too long ago. You weren¶t there. Next to the Bible you keep on your
kitchen table next to the empty cake container there was a note that read OUT TO LUNCH, so I made myself
comfortable hoping you¶d return soon.The right-winged man that has been taking you out to lunch for the past
few decades has been spoon feeding you chicken flavored inaccuracies and new traditions, and I came by to tell
you to stop accepting his invitations, but you were already gone. Also, I came by because I discovered something
new, and I thought I¶d share it with you. I¶ve finally perfected my frog killing technique and upon completion, I
found what looks to be awfully familiar:

1.Take a frog...any frog.

2.Put that frog in a pot of lukewarm water. Cold water

may shock him. Hot water may scald him.

3.Put the pot with the frog on the stovetop on low heat.

4.At this point, just watch the frog as he sits

comfortably in this warm water. Watch him notice that everything around him is the same, but whatever it is he¶s
sitting on is changing...but just a little. He¶s not yet sure if things are getting bad.

5.Turn the heat up a little more, but not too much. He¶s getting a bit more nervous, but not too nervous because
he¶s still there. Everything around him is the same, so he may assume he¶s the same.

6.Turn the heat on high. Watch that frog boil and die. Everything around him is the same, though.

Now doesn¶t that sound familiar to you? Soon I may find myself ducking behind old wooden
doors and odd cars in Copenhagen if I find my cause within you to be unjust. I here Truth is there, somewhere
cruising the red light districts and libraries. I¶ll be waiting on you, dear friend. When you¶re ready, I¶ll be
waiting.