Tag: Opinion

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Response to A.A. Gill’s “America the Marvelous”

It’s always disappointing to read pieces of literature by great authors who – disappointingly – are unforgivingly white. I have no problem with white authors (except for J.D. Salinger – you know why) and often praise them for their whit, eloquent speech, and disorienting allusions: authors like Thomas Moore, Marie de France, and Homer. As much as I appreciate white literature (white American and white European I use interchangeably)  and understand it to be the norm (albeit forcefully) for intellectual discourse, I can’t forgive white authors for being the very thing they are: white. 

A.A. Gill in his piece “America the Marvelous” argues that Europeans are hypocritical normies who purposefully refute the greatness of America to make themselves feel more superior. He strings together various reasons for why America is so great: the US has some of the best universities in the world, the most Nobel prize winners, and New York City. For all of these reasons, Gill confirms that Europeans only ridicule Americans out of their own self-pity and need for a farce to indulge themselves in the benefits of insults. A.A. Gill paints this marvelous image of America, one of an idealistic, diverse, complicated, cosmopolitan country; in Gill’s eyes, once you’ve stepped foot in America, you’ll never want to leave. You’ll be pulled in by America’s greatness and would dread the idea of returning to Europe, Africa – wherever you may be from. This is Gill’s argument, for his animosity towards our European counterparts has grown so great that he believes throwing insults back at them is the best way to find common ground; and although Gill never says it openly, I –  as I imagine most black, Asian, Hispanic people would – understood exactly what Gill really wants to say. Behind all this misplaced anger, Gill was just bragging about being white. All he did was talk about white people: who they are and what they’ve done, although he did gloss over a few things:  slavery, redlining, COINTELPRO, Jim Crow, Vietnam war, war on drugs, Cuban Missle Crisis, segregation, Japanese internment camps, the KKK, the Proud Boys, mass shootings, Native American genocide, Richard Nixon, the South, Chinese Exclusion Act, Guantanamo Bay, the My Lai Massacre, Emmett Till’s murder, the Wilmington coup (seriously, look this up), the Sand Creek Massacre, Santa Barbara Oil Spill, smallpox, neo-nazis, police brutality, Executive order 10450 (look this up too), Operation Wetback, Dredd Scott decision, McCarthyism, and the death of Treyvon Martin. But I guess none of this matters to A.A. Gill because he got to sing Be Bop a Lula (a song I have never heard as an American) in front of and with other white people. It’s almost sickening once you’ve realized what A.A. Gill has done: he’s made America into an oasis by distinguishing it from Europe, but still using Europe as the starting point of American culture, and by accentuating a few good outcomes over years and years of negative ones. I should mention again, Gill can only write in such a way because he is white; his argument and reasons for arguing are white noise to any person who isn’t white. He’s just another patriotic American white guy who has no shame, urges others to only look at the good, and abuses his whiteness so take bring himself above not only Europeans (who are also white), but anybody who isn’t also white (I use white a lot in this piece and I hope you understand why by now). Gill is just shouting into a white void – he’s furiously screaming at our European counterparts to understand how their history and ours are linked, and that we came out the better nation in the end. He condemns their snobbery, hypocrisy, and self-indulgence, all of which – I can logically assume – makes him feel like the bigger, better white guy. I don’t know A.A. Gill personally, so what I’m saying might come off as defacement; most readers would assume I’m any angry black guy lashing out on “white oppressors.” To an extent, that is true, but I assure you I am doing more than that.

 

I am trying to paint a picture of America as a whole,  not the bits and pieces Gill uses to develop his argument. America needs to be seen, in any light, by the good and the bad, they cannot exist without one another. Too often white authors only paint the picture of white America (even though Gill mentions Jazz which set me off), completely omitting the history of non-white Americans. If Gill and any other white American wishes to uplift America as this utopian-esque society with still more room to grow, they must also mention what is weighing America down: all the bigotry, hate, narcissism, and history that comes with being an American. Say what you will about Europeans: their accents suck (this is a joke for I am quite fond of British, French, and Spanish accents), most of them never reach 5’10, and they’re all stuck in the past. As bad as all this may seem, America is no better, and rather than pointing fingers, we should focus our energies on doing and being better; the first step, admitting to yourself Mr. Gill that you are white, and you have privilege.

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Ehren Joseph Layne

On Selfies – Opinion/Thesis

There is nothing anybody can say to convince me that selfies are about anything other than the selfier (the person taking the selfie – yes we are creating words). To take a selfie is to prioritize yourself over your surroundings, your vanity over your sanity, your perception over your reception; selfies are not tools of self-expression, but rather instruments of self-obsession. As selfies continue to grow in popularity amongst the young and the old, there have been cultural shifts in how people relate themselves to the world and the world to them. Whether a selfie is taken at a memorial site or a famous restaurant, the goal of the selfie is the same: to place oneself in the world and reflect their image upon it. Some might consider this a form of self-expression: for someone to reflect themselves upon the world is for them to take notice of the world and place themselves in a position of reflection, admiration, consideration, appreciation, and expression. This ignores the fact that selfies themselves are, by definition, separate from the world; rather, they exist to make the selfier the world(hence the strained importance on the word “self”). People have injured themselves trying to take selfies – died even – all for the sake of making the world revolve around them. Rather than the appreciation and admiration some would say encapsulate the true nature of the selfie, the injury caused by the selfie provides an alternative narrative: one of self-obsession. People who take selfies are self-obsessed, they care more about outward appearance and recognition for said appearance over inward qualities and the world around them. Tourists who take selfies at various locations are not doing so because they believe said location is of great importance; it’s quite the opposite – they believe that they can take importance away from the location and place themselves in the space created. They are what is most important, they are what matters. Selfies taken at weddings and other forms of public or private celebration are done so to make certain that the selfier is seen; seen by others and, most importantly, seen by themselves. The celebration only matters so much that it allows the selfier to say, “I was here” or “They are with me” or “I did that”. Never is the other recognized in the selfie; however, when the other is emphasized more than the selfier, the other acts to make the selfier seem righteous for giving the other more space to be important. No matter how you spin the selfie and its implications, the selfie always falls back on the self: I matter, I am important – look at me for this is my world, and in my world, nobody else matters besides me.

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Airports are Terrible, just ask Amaan – Narrative

 

*This piece is my attempt at a comedic retelling/narrative of the experience that made me hate airports forever(besides the countless other experiences where I was individually searched  out of suspicion that I might be concealing a weapon because it’s a crime for a teenage black boy to have a Nintendo in his back pocket)*

Airports don’t often advertise this, but we all know this to be true: airports are shit. To those of you who have had positive experiences in airports, I congratulate your white privilege and generous will from your grandfather. For the rest of us non-white persons and non-trust fund babies, airports are extremely hostile, racist, pee-scattered arenas where only the strong and stoic survive. If you fail to be both, you are thrown into an environment best described as “Could be worse”; that is, of course, till it gets worse. 

 

During the summer going into my  Freshman year of high school, I decided that it would be best to spend my vacation in a foreign country studying its culture. I’ve always had an immense appreciation for and infatuation with Spanish cultures, and so I spent 2 weeks traveling the beautiful country of Ecuador. I could drone on and on about Ecuadorian culture: the marketplace in Quito(where I almost got mugged), the rain forest(where I had to sleep with another student because we both were terrified of spiders), the Cotopaxi volcano(which almost erupted during my stay), and Ecuador’s infamous waterfalls(where a group of students almost got ran over by a herd of bulls). Needless to say, Ecuador was a trip I will never forget, but not because of the reasons I just listed. I will never forget Ecuador mainly because of my friend Amaan. Amaan is an Indian American who, if you know him well, is neither strong nor stoic, but rather kind and flamboyant. During our stay in Ecuador, Amaan and I got close and eventually cemented our friendship by way of both being car sick during our departure from Ecuador’s cloud forest. He and I shared many of the same qualities, such as neither of us being strong nor stoic and both of us having a strong condemnation towards airports. To this day, I consider Amaan a good friend and tell this story in the hopes to relay three important messages: one, airports are shit, two, don’t use hair gel, and finally, TSA agents are way too bored.

 

Rather than having a direct flight from Mariscal Sucre International Airport to JFK, a group consisting of myself, Amaan, 10 or so other classmates, and 3 chauffeurs from our Middle school, had a connecting flight. From Mariscal Sucre International Airport we flew to Miami International Airport, where we found ourselves stranded in one of America’s worst yet best states for two and a half hours. During that time, as teenagers tend to do with time, we did nothing but gossip, complain, and watch YouTube videos while using some poor sap’s Hotspot. Around 45 minutes before our flight, we began making our way to the terminal. Mistakes were made, and we had to, as a group, go through the conveyor belt-thingy again, taking off our shoes and belts and other objects that the TSA considers “threatening”(because, much like everybody else, I can hijack a plane with my size 9 Air Force Ones). As a black kid, going through security is always a risk, for being black is, if you didn’t know, a risk many black people have to take. On this day, however, I made it past security safely and patiently waited for my good friend Amaan to pass through as well. As I viscously attempt to put my shoes back on(it’s always more difficult once you’ve already passed security), a siren begins to sound, emitting from the conveyor belt-thingamajiggy. As I look up from my sorrowful attempt at tying a shoe, I see my good friend Amaan being surrounded by TSA, as they position themselves in the frightening and formidable “we don’t have guns but we are still a challenge for a 14-year old” formation. I audibly gasp (as any good friend would) at the horror of seeing Amaan surrounded, nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. Over the loudspeaker, an unenthusiastic white female ( I assume) begins to speak. She says, “Travellers do not panic. The bomb squad has just been called and there will be a temporary pause in flight departures and arrivals. We ask that you remain calm.” At this point, everyone is panicked, and after 20 minutes of complete chaos, three men in ABS uniform walk up to Amaan (and yes, these men were white) in a very intimidating manner, sharing looks of disgust at the possible 14-year old Indian American terrorist before them(have I mentioned that Amaan has no relation to Islam?). Without a moment’s notice, they began rummaging through Amaan’s carry-on bag (I thought the bomb squad would be more careful), scanning it ferociously for bomb residue or other bomb-like fluids. This process takes around 15 minutes. During those 15 minutes, Amaan was having a panic attack; he was crying, hyperventilating, and was, at times, seconds away from passing out entirely. As Amaan wept, and the 15 minutes of rummaging had stopped, the men from the Bomb Squad began to laugh and walked towards the nearest TSA telling them that all was clear. They said,  and even though I was out of earshot, I imagine it was something like, “Man are we dumb. It was just some hair gel! It was nice being needed for a few minutes. You guys have a nice day.” Hair gel. They mistook hair gel, for bomb residue. I am yet to pay taxes but when I do, I want to make certain it is not wasted on machinery and men who mistake hair gel for bomb residue. After 20 or so minutes of apologies from not-so-apologetic TSA agents, we made our way to our terminal where we sat, in awe, of what had just happened. After this day, I never touched hair gel again, and even better, haven’t said thank you to a TSA agent; I imagine Amaan has done the same. 

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Black people are wild savages, yet we can’t venture into the wilderness? – Thesis/Argument

I am Black and have no idea how to start a fire. I don’t know how to hunt, have very little knowledge on how to traverse large landscapes, and I can’t, for the life of me, pitch a tent.  If you were to place me in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, I’d survive for 2 to 3 days max; 4 days if I don’t eat the blueberries that were obviously not blueberries. Even with all my non-knowledge of the great outdoors, I am – as Black people are commonly referred to as – a wild savage. To some, or many, white people, I am the epitome of savagery and should forever exist in the wild or as a slave; they believe that I should have no rights, that I have a brain the size of a pigeons’(pigeons are considered a delicacy in some regions of the world so thank you for the back-handed compliment white man) and that I am, above all other flaws, a good-for-nothing…, well, you know the rest of the phrase. As a black man with no survival skills, it is difficult for me to understand (the outdoors, obviously) why there continues to be this link between my blackness and the wilderness. I am very much aware of the history between black people and nature. Rahawa Haile in her personal essay “Going it Alone”(a powerful piece that I very much enjoyed) gives the example of Harriet Tubman who, among many things, was an expert hiker who understood how to traverse the hundreds of miles of woods and mountains that lay between the North and Southeast regions of the US. She is an example of a black person who was – even if not by nature – very knowledgeable of the outdoors, and with that knowledge, she was able to save hundreds of other enslaved black people. I must mention, however, that Harriet Tubman is no longer alive(may she rest in peace) and that black people(thank god) are no longer enslaved. In the US, the majority of black citizenry live in or near metropolitan cities. Many of us, myself included, rarely venture into the wilderness, and those of us who do(like Rahawa) have a mixed experience with it. Rahawa is a black woman who adores the outdoors and understands it extremely well. As she attempts to embrace the wilderness to which she feels extrinsically linked, she cannot avoid the racism that exists as a byproduct of her ancestor’s enslavement. In her essay, Rahawa recounts, time and time again, the racist interactions she’s had with hikers not like herself(meaning white), and those who live in towns parallel to common hiking trails. She talks about a time where another hiker didn’t believe she was “black” because real “black” people don’t hike. I can’t wrap my head around how black people can be savages when many of us know nothing of the wilderness, and even if we do, we aren’t “black” because knowledge of the outdoors is reserved for white people. I direct this question to any white man who may be reading this: are Black people savages for your convention, or because hip-hop is the closest thing to monkey culture that you know?

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Hi! I am Antiguan – Response to “A Small Place”

I am proud of my Antiguan roots(Jamacia Kincaid is also a distant relative of mine – small island, everyone is related), yet could not help but feel sorrow while reading Jamaica Kincaid’s “A Small Place” and recounting the history of my mother’s birthplace. I’ve come to accept the fact that all contemporary culture originates from the malevolence of white men; men who would have never accepted the state of being a slave but felt pride in owning one; men who hated being conquered but felt morally justified in conquering; men who protected their families but were willing to destroy others. Devilish, evil, white men, whose reign and terror has forced those terrorized to condole themselves; culture, then, is born from the sympathetic feelings of the oppressed, who use their common horror as a means of social security. In attempting to understand Antiguan history and culture, a single principle must be presumed: we did not ask for this. We didn’t ask to be descendants of slaves. We didn’t ask for a corrupt government. We didn’t ask for the Syrians. We didn’t ask for Americans, Europeans, and – in general – white people. We didn’t ask for this hell, and if you wish to understand my family, my history, and my people, it must be known that we feel great sorrow for the oppressed, for we are them, and we, unfortunately, will never be anything but them. Jamaica Kincaid forced me to take a painful look at Antigua’s history and contemporary culture, both of which are demeaning to Antiguans and are heavily influenced by white men. As much as I agree with Kincaid’s view of Antigua, and appreciate her candor when speaking about our culture and our people, I am – and believe Kincaid is as well – horrified by our reality and often find myself – as Kincaid proclaims – baffled by the unsettling, egotistical nature of oppressors. 

Note: I didn’t really have an agenda while writing this. There’s no underlying plot nor thesis: this piece was really just me venting in a very constrained manner( I could’ve said a lot worse, worse). I had writer’s block trying to construct a piece about something so personal and felt that these were the only words I could say for now.

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Everybody Looks the Same? – Response to A.A. Gill

 

44% of London’s population consists of Black and Brown persons, yet A.A. Gill composes a picture of a city that is woefully and unwaveringly white. This, I must be honest, pisses me off. It is too often that travel writers or travel critiques write in a way that completely excludes Black and Brown persons (unless, of course, they’re are writing about Africa or South America). Black people(which I happen to be: go Black people!) are never given proper representation in travel documentation unless we are the spectacle that is to be seen by tourists. Besides such spectacle, Black and Brown persons are presented as non-existent – with the reason being that due to our lack of “history” in mainly white cities, we hold no value to the physique or aura of said city. I will have Mr. Gill know that Idris Elba was born in the U.K., and he is one hell of a Black man. He is a Londoner, and much like Mr. Gill, Idris Elba matters. He matters to the history of the U.K. He matters to the U.K. entertainment business. He is another Black Londoner whose struggle has been interwoven into the current U.K. mainstream entertainment that white Londoners have enriched themselves off of. So before you talk about your city and its rich history, that history better include Black people.

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Opinion Piece

*This piece is purely an opinion piece: I kind of just ramble and let my thoughts flow freely. *

More and more I’ve grieved for the current state of the world. California is on fire, a deadly disease has turned the world upside down, Russia is Russia, the polar ice caps are melting, and so on, but as much as I grieve for these disasters, I more so grieve over the loss of individuality. We’ve been programmed to believe that our presence online is, to some degree or another, positive; we connect with others, we are free to express ourselves, and was have instant access to a wide breadth of information. We feel so much glee for having the ability to learn whatever, whenever, and share our views on what we’ve learned whenever and wherever. I am happy that I can google a word and don’t have to go through the strenuous process of opening a dictionary and searching for the first letter of whatever word and so on and so forth; having instant access to everything is such an indescribable feeling that it terrifies me that I can’t describe it. We have become numbers. Literally. Corporations create products that make us believe that we are special when in reality we are nothing but dollar signs and algorithms. It has come to a point where the US has now taken into custody big tech corporations and accuse them of commodifying our sense of self-worth and self-identity. Instagram’s like button, Facebook’s poke feature, Twitter’s retweet function; each of these simple programs made to make us feel like we are worth a damn, have actually made us worth a few cents. Every like, every retweet, every poke is another dollar in the pocket of Wall Street’s mega businesses, and I have been mourning the death of genuine feelings of individuality. I often judge myself for playing into social media’s many demons(and as of September I have not used Instagram nor Twitter) but then find myself having to stop and recontextualize why I play into them. It isn’t because I’m weak-minded(I hope). It isn’t because I lack the willpower to choose. It isn’t because I’m stupid or arrogant or incapable of understanding how effective social media is at directing both my conscious and subconscious. It’s because I don’t matter. It’s because I am, for lack of better phrasing, nothing. I am just another product that has been paid for. I am just another product that has been sold. My information, my dignity, my self-worth, are all now 1’s and 0’s that Instagram can plug into an equation that summates to me. Social media has used me, to make me, and I am now only a number, or figure, that they use to make a fortune. I am so terrified of how big tech has, with little resistance, puppet-mastered the whole world. I try being hopeful but it feels too much a labour for only me to carry. To believe, to hope, feels heavy, because at the end of the day, I am just somebody else’s profit. I am just another number. I no longer equate to me.

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Ehren Joseph Layne

Opinion – Cruise Ships

I hate pampering. To be more honest,  I abhor it. I feel zero envy towards those who are given everything; I look upon them with only disgust for their complete dependency on the work of others. To never have to clean; to never have to cook; to never have to do your own laundry; it all seems ridiculous to me – the idea of complete and utter dependency. Now,  I can’t lie, I understand the appeal of pampering from a maternal standpoint: most of us ( I would assume) were raised by parents(or a parent) who provided us with all that  we needed; we didn’t have to shop for ourselves, cook for ourselves, or even clean up our own shit. It isn’t until we’ve begun maturation (depending on your socioeconomic class, that is: the richer you are, the less you’ve had to do for yourself , the less you’ve matured,  and vice versa) that we start to feel a sense of independence. Upon maturation, our need for an overseer(our parents or parent) begins to fade, and we desire everything and anything to be done by our own hand. To this extent, I can understand where a desire for pampering comes from: a distant past where you were once treated like a baby because you were one. However, even in older age, there still is the inclination – or want – to be treated like a baby. If you’re 84 years old, senile, and geriatric, I can better wrap my head around why you’d want your “mother” back(I would too if I couldn’t clean up my own shit anymore), but even with that said, pampering still feels so, well, shitty. Take cruise ships, for example: they pamper you to death. I am yet to board a cruise ship myself(as a colored person, I feel terrible watching other colored persons do everything for a majority white cruise ship population) but am acutely aware of how cruise ships advertise themselves and how they treat their customers. Cruise ships offer scenery and a lifestyle unbecoming of most lower and middle class persons; pale blue skies, luxurious meals, bear-ass soft towels, 24/7 neo-slavery, and more. On cruise ships, the more you do nothing for yourself, the more you enjoy everything about the cruise experience. Annual cruise-goers(or whatever they call themselves: Americans) are more like products than anything: their lives are made up by industry executives all for the prospect of monetary gain. The luxury cruise line business model is to supply you with a life that makes them money: by any means necessary they will give you everything, in the hopes that you do nothing, so that they can get more of everything you need to do nothing. Nothing. Fucking nothing. How is nothing so appealing? Having someone constantly in your room, cleaning it for you, venturing close to basically wiping your ass; having someone cut your steak for you, put on your bib for you, and basically pre chew your steak au poivre. Having someone carry around your sweaty towel( which – if you believe in the transitive theory – basically means they were touching your balls), carry around your bags; carry every load in your life , breaking their backs on supporting your bad habits, your worst behaviors, and your insatiable appetite for a maternal love that has been commodified. I abhor pampering, but have an even stronger condemnation of cruise liners, for not only do they pamper to death, they make so much money off of our worst impulses.