This week, Ta-Nehisi Coates’ essay, “I’m Not Black, I’m Kanye,” was published in The Atlantic. He scribed an excellent assessment of the Kanye mania dominating the headlines for the last few weeks (months? years?), and he did it with compassion and unwavering sobriety. His clear-eyed focus and precise prose reflect an intimate and historical understanding of Kanye, in all his genius and in all his bullshit. But that’s nothing. While Kanye was mouthing off on Twitter about some trash that should have been ignored, Donald Glover aka Childish Gambino was preparing to release an ULTRA-provocative meditation on violence against black bodies, with particular focus on the police and the handling of black bodies and guns.
Glover himself is the star of the video and we are treated to an unusually revealing look at the actor, comedian, father, boyfriend, and musician, deep within his element, as he gyrates and shines to the beat. The think pieces on what he meant continue to flow in, but the jury is still out on what it meant to HIM. The song itself features strong African influences both in vocals and in rhythm (finally!). It had my black body moving, that’s for damned sure, and as one of my girlfriends put it (loosely), ‘i guess he is making us deal with his black body.’ In the video, he wears tight gray bell bottoms. And nothing else.
His chest is completely exposed. He is popping. And sweating. And pumping. And bugging. And shooting people, and posing before shooting a person, and running from (toward?) the fucking police.
And he hit the Gwara Gwara.
Lest I fail to accurately depict it here, I’m going to watch it a few more times before forming my assessment.
How does this relate to Coates’ essay on Kanye (who, in the essay, was juxtaposed against Michael Jackson)? Well, in the last few days, reflections on the creative genius proffered by these Black men of prominence coupled with what we are witnessing in real time, thanks to social media and the internet, speak volumes about how how the world treats black geniuses who happen to be men and how these men treat themselves as they navigate celebrity.
Michael Jackson. Pop superstar, master musician, and child prodigy victimized by an abusive father. Died young due due to complications associated with misuse of heavy sedatives administered by personal physician. Leaves to ponder decades of allegations of sexual misconduct with young boys.
Ta-Nehisi Coates. Adroit historian and non-fiction writer. College dropout and renowned academic. Self-proclaimed realist who is frequently branded a pessimist. DeletedTwitter account amid online spat with Cornel West, simply stating, “peace, yall. i’m out. i didn’t get in it for this.”
Kanye West. Prolific producer and beatmaker. Unapologetically erratic rapper. Troubled tweeter with no filter who says too much online.
Donald Glover aka Childish Gambino. According to Wikipedia, “an actor, comedian, writer, director, producer, singer, songwriter, rapper, and DJ.” IMO, slept-on nerd who found the funding to release his inner provocateur.
Coates spoke on Kanye’s ostensibly lacking familial ties. Or rather, in examining his own “web,” he wrote of surviving celebrity:
I really did love to write—the irreplaceable thrill of transforming a blank page, the search for the right word, like pieces of a puzzle, the surgery of stitching together odd paragraphs. I loved how it belonged to me, a private act of creation, a fact that dissipated the moment I stepped in front of a crowd. So, that really was me. But more importantly, I think, were things beyond me, the pre-fame web of connections around me—child, spouse, brothers, sisters, friends—the majority of whom held fast and remained.
What would I be both without that web and with a larger, more menacing fame? I think of Michael Jackson, whose father beat him and called him “big nose.” I think of the sad tale of West’s rumored stolen laptop. (“And as far as real friends, tell my cousins I love ‘em / Even the one that stole the laptop, you dirty motherfucker.”) I think of West confessing to an opioid addiction, which had its origins in his decision to get liposuction out of fear of being seen as fat. And I wonder what private pain would drive a man to turn to the same procedure that ultimately led to the death of his mother.
There’s nothing original in this tale and there’s ample evidence, beyond West, that humans were not built to withstand the weight of celebrity.
MJ died. Depending on which part of his story you believe, he bleached his skin and permed his hair. He surgically altered the shape of his nose and face, worked himself into oblivion and then needed drugs to unwind. He was surrounded by people who did what he told them to do, including bringing him young boys.
Kanye is coming undone right before our eyes. We don’t yet know how that story will end, but we can surmise that the people surrounding him are unlike his mother, a black woman and academic from the South Side of Chicago who could inevitably have been more of an anchor through his storms. His wife, Kim Kardashian, seems less attuned to the implications of his actions than one would hope from the wife of a Black man whose star is so luminous. I can’t believe he got lipo.
Coates walked away from the public eye to continue working on his craft and to perhaps save himself.
And how will Glover deal? Based on his hair alone, my guess is that he will not succumb.
However, we all could treat our Black geniuses with more care, even as we hold them accountable and call them on their bullshit. The fact that Kanye is a self-professed non-reader should have silenced 90% of the discussion around his tweets because who cares? It just seems better that we treat him as a brother while he’s living than mourn him like a stranger if this life takes him too soon.
Nonfiction Woman 