HANGING WITH THE HORRIFIC

I'm not the confessional type. For me, it's always been a thing to keep my stuff between me and God. I've never put my demons on public blast, and I most definitely don't fit what you'd might call a "sharer." I'll chop it up with you about matters theological, economic, and political. I'll bend your ear about jazz. About Miles. About Jimmy "the cat" Smith. About Betty Carter. About Sarah Vaughn. But what I'm not going to do, what I've never done, is to provide easy access to my dreams. My failures. My faults. I'm not recommending this as a course of action for anyone, and I'm certainly not throwing shade at "sharers." I'm not saying the way I am is good or bad. In fact, it's even possible that I'd be better off were I to open up more, to at least allow limited access to my interiority, to be less guarded and allow people to get a peek. Oh, I'll let the veil fall back every now and then but that's usually not intentional. That's usually the result of an occasional slip. A mistake if you will. But, oddly, today I want to make a confession. So, here goes:

My name is Mike and I'm a horror head.

I'm not sure exactly when I got bit by the bug. Of for that matter if I was the bitter rather than the bitten. I do remember, however, drinking thirstily from the well of the horrific. I remember--still--watching and being transfixed by the horror joints that came out during the Black Power Movement. Like Blacula. featuring such actors as William Marshall and Vonetta McGee. That's the one where Mamuwalde (William Marshall), the African Prince, demands Count Dracula to renounce the slave trade from which he--the Count-- has benefitted. Or: Dr. Black and Mr. Hyde, which featured former NFL player, Bernie Casey, and the always stellar Rosalind Cash. Dedicated to curing "liver disease" among Black residents of Watts, the good doctor eventually experiments on himself, with stuff going away and turning himself into a white man who goes on a rampage killing pimps and prostitutes. Doc ends up getting smoked by the police.

Despite occasional lapses, I never fully turned my back on the genre of horror. Sure, some of it is trash, and problematic in all kinds of ways. There's no shortage of horror films trafficking in gratuitous violence, racial stereotypes, misogyny, and homophobia, and so on. But there're also instances where, for example, Black horror-- projects directed, produced, and staring Black actors-- have sought to push back against racial stereotypes and to function as a site that proffered critical commentary on the past and continuing impact of racial subordination on Black folk. Scholars like Robin R. Means Coleman, author of the book, Horror Noire: Blacks In American Horror Films from the 1890s to Present, consistently and cogently highlights those occasions where Black horror functions as text on racial and social justice.

All of which brings me to June 4th, 2021. That's the day that Clarence Williams III, one of our greatest character actors, joined the ranks of the ancestors. Handsome, gap-toothed, and regal, the man could flat out act. Some will remember him as "Linc" the suave undercover cop in the Mod Squad. Others will remember him as the OG "Bumpy" Johnson passing out turkeys to the poor while simultaneously trading in terror. Still others might remember him as Prince's abusive father in Purple Rain. Or who could ever forget his role in Sugar Hill as the drug addicted father the drug dealing kingpin brothers, Romello (Wesley Snipes) and Raynathan (Michael Wright) Skuggs. There's that heartbreaking scene where their pops keels over from an overdose --but not before, in the midst of that classic heroin nodding, he poignantly laments about how the horror of heroin has literally drained everything of value of out of his life and plunged him into a descent where deliverance can only be found in death. Williams is absolutely masterful here, and if you've ever been around "that life," you know that he nails it.

But as magnificent as he is in all of this and more, Williams' death took me back to that classic horror movie made more than quarter of a century ago. Tales From The Hood (Tales). At least fifteen years has passed since I last viewed Tales. But after recently re-watching it, I'm convinced that Tales, despite its flaws, is nothing less than a withering text of social criticism. It still resonates. Both because of the crazingly magnificent performance of Williams, and what Tales tries to accomplish.

DON'T HARM THE HOOD

For those who don't know or can't remember, here's the background right quick: Three young Black males arrive at the funeral home to purchase "some shit" that the funeral director is believed to have "found" and up for offering for sale. Sort of basic market transaction, right? Buyer and seller meet, agree on a price, and then make it happen.

Upon arrival, they're greeted by Mr. Simms--played by Clarence Williams III. Looking like Don King on a bad day about the head, and with eyes transfixed on any object within its sight, Mr. Simms promises them that they'll definitely end up "getting the shit." The "shit," of course, is drugs, and as Simms/Williams leads them toward the back he opens coffin after coffin--four in total-- and he narrates the horror that's got them laid up in that box. He--Mr. Simms-- ends up narrating a series of short stories that underscore how the horrific can touch the lives of individuals and the hoods within which they reside.

The four vignettes include:

Rogue Cop Revelation: A community activist who has been waging a campaign against police corruption is murdered, placed in his automobile, and then him and his whip is pushed into the river by a trio of white boys in blue.Before disposing of the body, bags of heroin and hypodermic needles are placed on his person. The white officers eventually hunted down by the ghost/Spirit of the councilman and get the opportunity to reap their just desert. Not to be missed is a later scene where, after the body is discovered and buried, the White officers piss on the grave of the deceased. What's more, there is a Black officer who, out of fright, chooses silence over snitching the killers out. The Ghost of the deceased is none too pleased and presses a question to the silent one: "Where were you when I needed you, brother?" Unlike the White officers, he's not wiped out, but he pays a steep price.

Boys Do Get Bruised : A precious little Black boy finds himself trapped in the horrifying experience of domestic violence. The mother's boyfriend is straight up monstrous, and regularly beats on both mother and son. Carrying bruises on his body, a Black male teacher notices and seeks to find out what's going on, and to take any necessary steps to stop the bruising. In a final scene, he ends up catching the hands of that monster ruling over the haunted house. Shaking with fear as he watches his teacher and his mom get the snot knocked out of them, the boy with the bruises pulls out a piece of paper on which he has drawn his own version of the monster-man who has lorded over them. His twisting, crumbling, and ultimately burning of that piece of paper reduces the horrific presence of the boyfriend into a gob of useless and withering muscle that metamorphizes into nothingness.

And then there's these two:

KKK Comeuppance: Duke Megter-- a racist hybrid of the real life David Duke and KKK leader Tom Metzger-- has the audacity to set up his election campaign in a former plantation house rumored to be haunted by the spirit of slaves who had been murdered there, with the spirits themselves being encased in little dolls who had the run of the joint. Importantly, Duke's got a Black advisor, prepping him in the art of masking the horrific under affability and race-neutral language and, in exchange for such tutoring, getting paid, of course. He knows Duke is full of it but a brother's got to get his hustle on. Long story short: His Black advisor falls down a flight of steps and dies amid tutoring the unrepentantly racist Duke. As for Duke, well, the ancestors aren't pleased, and he ends up getting got by the dolls.

Hard-Core Converts: Crazy K is a straight up gangster whose area of expertise involves pulling up on other young, Black male gangstas "about that life." He has a complete disregard for Black life, stays strapped, and will up his gat on a negro in a nanosecond. Crazy K has even unintentionally killed a young bystander. As for he's concerned, if you're in the wrong place at the right time, you just may happen to get got. No tears from him, and he doesn't covet any weeping for him. Eventually, he gets arrested and placed in a government "rehabilitation" program where he's endlessly tortured for his horrific deeds. . It's also in the joint where he meets up with a hardened White Supremacist who assures Crazy K that he's got no beef with him.

As narrated by Williams, the red thread that runs throughout these vignettes is this: The worst offense one can commit is to do harm to the hood. There's all kinds of ways in which that harm can be afflicted upon the hood and its residents, including remaining silent in the face of injustice, holding the lives of others in contempt, engaging in acts of domestic violence against women and children, championing White Nationalism, deadly policing of the hood, and trying--in exchange for money-- to cut deals with people who represent nothing but the horrific to the hood.

People are not automatons. Choice is available to all. Human agency is real thing. And when you make the wrong choices, either by commission or omission, you're held accountable. When you harm the hood, you'll get--and deserve-- a comeuppance.

The ancestors and the supernatural are lined up against you and will make sure that you get your desert. Best, then, to make sure that you don't harm the hood.

HANG WITH THE HORRIFIC

So, here's what I think. I think it behooves us to hang out a bit with the horrific. I don't mean to get devoured by it or participate in it. And I sure don't mean opening ourselves up to the "opportunity" to become monstrous. Nor do I mean to imply that life is reducible to that which is horrific. In fact, for many of us life is indeed good and worthy of being cherished. To reduce life in the hood to the horrific is to cast it as a terror dome dominated and ruled over by monstrous forces. It is to imagine it as irredeemably dangerous and it dire need of force to straighten it out and get folks minds right. It is to see it need of some good old fashion law and order and more incarceration. It is to see it as peopled by an "Other" that need to be brought to heel. That's the kind of rhetoric that rises out of the mouth of authoritarian politicians and folk pleased with a society that sloughs toward fascism.

What I mean, instead, is that the horrific does exist indeed, and that being the case, we're better off when we can hang out long enough to look it in the eye, recognize its smell, and see it when its coming. We need to hang with the horrific and get acquainted with it because it can pop up in all areas of life and do harm to those in the hood. It can --and does come-- in the form of rhetoric that denies the inherent worth and dignity of all of creation. It can be wrapped up and concealed in sweet sounding rhetoric, and it can make its appearance damn near everywhere. In economic policies that sacrifices the poor, in the over policing of the hood, in the willingness to be good with a teen age girl being killed by the cops, in being silent about a horror that we don't believe impacts upon us directly, in failing to summon up the courage to be in genuine solidarity with the excluded, in aligning with a fascist in the dream of getting some funds for our own little projects, in turning our eyes to abusers of all sorts and, yes, in our churches where, among other things, some preacher can uncritically idolize a King who's also a rapist but can't envision "certain people" as being able to live out their call to ministry. You got to hang out a little with the horrific to smell this kind of stuff, to see this kind of stuff, and to call it out and resist it. For those on the receiving end, let's call it what it is: horrific.

But, hey, maybe I'm off base; won't be the first or the last. What do I know, right? I mean, who am I anyway? I know I love Clarence William III and the delivery and content of Tales From The Hood.

My name is Mike and I'm a horror head.

Catch you on the flip side