Order of the Oppressed Vlog #4: How to make a FAKE Secret Society
D'Angello
Sherrod Rashard
Prologue: 2001
We were as boys, then, lower lip falling, brows glistened with sweat,
standing askance and peeping into manhood. We did not cry but we should
have when D’Angello stood naked amongst us. Though I have lived with
myself for eighteen years, the night D’Angello bent and bowed with his
own penis erect, unclothed was the first time I realized that I, too,
had one.
He was crying but I could not hear a
sniffle. The tears blended disguised from the sweat of his face. I doubt
anyone could find a single tear or flaw. He was perfect. I only knew he
cried from the color of burnt orange that seemed to lead from the
depths of his thoughts to the center of his eyes. Blood shot, he
grimaced holding his composure though clenched teeth. If he forgot to
breath then the six of us – remembered. Our hearts lept with our lungs,
waiting for this moment to pass.
“Stand up,
dammit.” Malice barked and we all stood at attention immediately. To be
fair, the question that Malice asked D’Angello was the same question
that Malice asked me, the same question he asked Check and also the same
question that he himself was asked four years ago. Oppressed or not, to
be a man of the Order you must first be a man. And to be a man there is
only one correct answer to Malice’s question.
“Motherfucker if you don’t look me in the eye.” Malice’s chin rocked
upwards from left to right his forehead falling inevitably as he spoke
with vintriloquy no one knowing the color of his tongue.
We all moved closer so that D’Angello could be near
We weren’t much protection. The six of us signals – Check, Abdullah, Lorenzo, Guru, Sherrod Rashard and I – formed our tightest circle, our
cipher. We were still fully clothed in our brown jerseys, brown sweats,
brown boots. We stood shoulder to shoulder blocking naked D’Angello from
everything except Malice’s words. D’Angello stood with a vulnerability
semierction that was more erect than semi. With buffed nails and
polished toes, he waited.
“Are you gay?” Malice’s
words fell into the empty hush of the void. Three words fell into our
mosh pit taking the place of all our thoughts which remained unsaid.
It would have been simpler just to say no – so the question would
fall onto Arjeet. Or maybe it would have been better if D’Angello had
hesitated. But he did not. He confessed to what we already knew and
really should not have given a damn about. But Malice cared. And his
care turning, cycling from concern to rage to violence spurred the
battle royale of the night. Each time D’Angello answered yes, Malice
reached with dirty nails for an eye, a shoulder, an abdominal. And each
time D’Angello was given a second chance to be a man, he still confessed
yes. “Yes, I am.” Or yes, I am gay.
And for all our twelve hands, twelve knees, twelve cheeks, twelve
elbows, twelve feet and twelve shoulders – we did a shitty job of
protecting D’Angello from the traditions and rituals of Black
homophobia. We stood in front of D’Angello without blocking or we
blocked without effort because maybe the six of us were really curious
of what being both strong and gay looked like. We expected him to
change. To put up the truce flag, the white cloth and say I confess I am
confused—I am not really gay. But he did not stutter. Not when Malice
came with fist or Mannuel or many, many men who did not want the legacy
of their greatness to be in the hands of a man who held hands with men
unashamedly.
There was blood. We watched it fall. From where? We don’t know. But D’Angello never changed his reply.
The men grew weary before he did.
Was D’Angello more of a man than us? I don’t think any man in our
cipher had met a single black woman – save our momma – for whom we would
take a whipping. I think we didn’t save D’Angello because we didn’t
save ourselves. We were paralyzed —- shocked and motivated, both, by his
uprightness.
Every black man in the room bore a
history of struggle. Malice's grandparents' grandparents and mine were
slaves; Check and Guru’s grandparents were colonized; Abdullah’s
parents have been investigated for funding terrorist organizations while
sending money to their aunts and cousins and great-uncles; and, both
D’Angello and Mannuel's and are decendents of Blacks who decided to own
other Blacks once they got free. We have been oppressed by white men
and suppressed by ourselves. And we are still trying to figure this shit
out.
So, as we were raised to revere our history
of captives who overcame, enslaved who rebelled and martyrs who endured,
we have been taught to embrace struggle as a testament to our strength
and our salvation.
The seven of us in my cipher are
the personification of struggle. We are judged and thus valued based
off of how much we have endured of how well we disguise the effects.
I am a Man of Oppression. I wear the title proudly and I carry the burden effortlessly as do the men in my cipher.
Each person I know holds an opinion of Black secret orders. My
girlfriend abhors the thought and cannot bear the sight of the Omicron
brand upon my chest. She sleeps, always on my left as not to be
scratched or blemished by the raised scar. Since I drafted the blood
red, brown bone society, I believe the downtroddenness of oppression no
longer courses through my blood.
Now, I can’t carry
the childish impression of orders and societies. The scenes my eyes
have now witnessed should be barred from my thought. Still, I would not
trade one moment for a different path.
It is, admittedly, kind of humorous to watch the transformation of
college students like myself that find themselves drafting who are not
descendents of members past. Both Gurudas, who has become my most fond
comrade, and I were two of those lost souls. Guru’s brilliance and
personality attracted the Order to him and his naivete and hopefulness
made the Order seem attractive. Guru and I were the kind of signals who
were foolish enough to think Black fraternal orders mimicked their white
counterparts. He once confessed to me he thought he would sleep with a
few women, take a few tests, through back a few beers and be welcomed
into private calls and secret handshakes. And yes, all of those events
transpired upon our journey but coindentally and completely independent
of our walk towards brotherly order.
It is true,
before a boy becomes a man he must face his own reflection and without
shrieking back, declare himself changed. Many cultures have rights of
passages, but no rite is passed until one face the looking glass and
sees another being, until one sees a man.
My
grandfather drove me to college with two suitcases and one milk crate of
books. And with one downward nod of the head, with one firm brush
across my shoulder blade he left me with one declaration: “do not leave
college without finding order in your house.” It took me one year to
find order, one year to submit to order and two years to interpret and
understand the order in my own home.
And so a Black man’s life in America rests and grows from the
crossroads between struggle and order. One day Simone’s Sinnerman meets
Eshu Eleggua and must decide how to proceed.
Proceeding through order without memories of struggle creates men who
declare themselves men without actually having an identity; while a
procession through struggle without order is the quickest route to
suicide or homicide which for the black man, black family and black
community are one and the same.
Since
compulsiveness comes to those who those who seek order alone and madness
always visits those who struggle by themselves, I sought brotherhood to
make sense of the world I have been thrust into or at least brothers to
take the edge off of that which does not make sense.