Only Halle, who had watched her movements closely for the last four years, knew that to get in and out of bed she had to lift her thigh with both hands, which was why he spoke to Mr. Garner about buying her out of there so she could sit down for a change. Sweet boy. The one person who did something hard for her: gave her his work, his life and now his children, whose voices she could just make out as she stood in the garden wondering what was the dark and coming thing behind the scent of disapproval.

I thought about the quote above, taken from Beloved, as I read Harry Belafonte’s critique of Beyonce and Jay-Z for failing to accept social responsibility. Those two, at least as conveyed through Beyonce’s camp, had no idea what Belafonte meant by his critique. The fact that Beyonce has performed at charity benefits and given money to worthy causes does not speak to the substance of Belafonte’s criticism. He didn’t say that she and her husband wouldn’t do what came easy to them, Belafonte was suggesting that they have not done what  might be hard–like allow their images to suffer. Bruce Springsteen, the celebrity Belafonte endorsed, has shown a willingness to critically examine his cultural terrain, as “American Skin (41 shots)” certainly did. This song was inspired by the tragic police shooting of unarmed, Guinean immigrant Amadou Diallo by police officers in 1999. Though Springsteen insists that the song is anti-tragedy and not anti-police, this did not prevent the Police Benevolent Association from discouraging its members from supporting Springsteen’s concerts with their labor as he performed the song in venues across the United States. Springsteen has since dedicated the song to Trayvon Martin. I may be wrong, but I haven’t known Beyonce or Jay-Z to have taken such chances.

In a previous post, I wrote about the limitations of the nearly hour long performance of “Niggas in Paris.” While Jay-Z and Kanye commanded the stage with their hit song while actually performing in Paris, they never sought to make a relevant connection to the lives of those who are actually experiencing being treated like “niggas” in Paris. The women in the video below being dragged, pregnant and with their babies on their backs, know a little something about dehumanization and yet no connection gets made

between them and what it means to be a “nigga in Paris.” Why not? I suspect it’s because being socially responsible in this way would have cost too much. It would have meant that people might have been uncomfortable; that they may not have purchased more concert tickets; sponsors may not have offered more endorsement contracts.

I read an article in The New York Times about the huge return that Jay-Z nets on a relatively small investment in the Nets franchise. I found it incredibly troubling that Jay used his influence–or at least he allowed his image to be used  to promote the idea that a new basketball arena would create jobs. Of course it will create low-skill, low-wage jobs but it won’t lead to the creation of work that will generate a middle-class lifestyle; minimum wage does not do that. Perhaps Jay-Z understands this about the kind of work that the arena will produce but he didn’t make his understanding clear to those who trust and believe in him. Doing so would have certainly influenced whether or not he was considered an appropriate choice to be a stakeholder with the franchise. As the Times article notes, Jay-Z benefits financially from his relationship with the Nets but Belafonte’s point asks us to consider whether Jay’s personal gain satisfies the terms of social responsibility.

When Baby Suggs in Morrison’s Beloved considers the sacrifices that have been made for her, she finds few people who have made difficult choices in her honor; in fact, only one person “did something hard for her.” Not only has this measure helped me to be clear about who has shown me love and who I’ve shown it to in my personal life, it has also helped me to evaluate social responsibility. When Harry Belafonte made his critique of Beyonce and Jay-Z’s philanthropy, he had Baby Suggs’s metric in mind.

Earlier this summer, I read Maurice Berger’s article in The New York Times about the discovery of a series of Gordon Parks photographs believed to have been lost. The photographs chronicled the daily life of an extended family in Mobile, Alabama in 1956. According to Berger, the found photographs expand upon themes established in that same series of 20 photographs published in Life magazine. Contrary to the documentary photographs from the civil rights period showing brutal inhumanity in black and white, Parks’s photographs reveal the dignity and humanity that black people procured for themselves as they made their lives as rich as they could, amidst demeaning circumstances, in full color and thus vibrancy. Berger contends that the full scope of Parks’s work captures the spirit and will of people committed to living fully in the face of grueling oppression.

The photograph above shows one of Parks’s photographs and confirms Berger’s contention; too, it reminds me of Zora Neale Hurston’s observations about black life–interestingly as she observed it in Mobile. Thus, in “Characteristics of Negro Expression,” she offers the following:

On the walls of the homes of the average Negro one always finds a glut of gaudy calendars, wall pockets and advertising lithographs. The sophisticated white man or Negro would tolerate none of these, even if they bore a likeness to the Mona Lisa. No commercial art for decoration. Neither the calendar nor the advertisement spoils the picture for this lowly man. He sees the beauty in spirit of the declaration of the Portland Cement Works or the butcher’s announcement. I saw in Mobile a room in which there was an over-stuffed mohair living-room suite, an imitation mahogany bed and chifferobe, a console victrola. The walls were gaily papered with Sunday supplements of the Mobile Register. There were seven calendars and three wall pockets. One of them was decorated with a lace doily. The mantel-shelf was covered with a scarf of deep home-made lace, looped up with a huge bow of pink crepe paper. Over the door was a huge lithograph showing the Treaty of Versailles being signed with a Waterman fountain pen.

It was grotesque, yes. But it indicated a desire for beauty.

The Thornton home looks nothing like the Mobile homes Hurston describes as “average Negro” abodes. These sitters strive towards respectability. Hurston’s observations put me in mind of the Parks photograph largely because they situate diversity in black life while at the same time acknowledging a common “desire for beauty.” I saw this desire not only in the bouquet of flowers placed on the coffee table and formal wear of Mr. and Mrs. Thornton but also in the neatness and order that so marked their uncluttered space.

I’ve been learning to take greater pride in my own efforts to maintain a well-ordered environment. Rather than as a chore to be done, I now think about how in sweeping the floor, vacuuming the carpet, washing the dishes, and cleaning the commode I am not merely doing what needs to be done but I am making a claim about the value of my space. I better understand now that in maintaining my environment, I am making an assertion regarding its value. Under Jim Crow segregation, Mr. and Mrs. Thornton were not supposed to think that they led lives of value. The photograph of them shows that they had another idea about that–they disagreed with their culture about the measure of their lives. For those of us who live anonymously in small homes without great material fortune, we have a similar fight to declare the meaningfulness of our lives.

I am keenly aware of how little regard I am supposed to have for myself as a result of the trappings of success that I lack. It would seem impossible not to know this. Popular voices in American culture assume a common starting point for measuring success and so much of what you read or view in the culture trumpets money and the loot it affords as the standard for judging human value. If you are at all critical, however, the absurdity of this standard through the lens of popular culture undermines itself. For example, I was reading an article on a celebrity news site about boxer Floyd Mayweather Jr.’s release from prison. Apparently, the night before his release, his current girlfriend had a birthday and Mayweather paid for the cake to look like an expensive bag, he bought her expensive jewelry, and perhaps he paid for everyone’s meal. I have to admit, I was confused about the gifts and can’t be sure if he also bought his girlfriend the purse that the cake was based on or if the cake itself was expensive and that’s what was supposed to be the fact to acknowledge; all I know for sure is that he spent a lot of money. The author of the piece did make clear that readers were supposed to be jealous because we weren’t similarly feted; but of course, this was completely absurd–at least to me. Floyd Mayweather was in prison for having attacked his ex-girlfriend while his children watched. Expensive goods do not replace this fact. His purchasing power does not eclipse the fact that his ex-girlfriend was not a worthy contender for the boxer leading authorities rank as the best pound for pound in the world. To me, the ex-girlfriend is lucky to have escaped with her life. Given that precedent, I do not envy his current girlfriend anything.

Maybe Floyd Mayweather, his current girlfriend, and the author of the article all have a “desire for beauty;” maybe we all do. The critical point is that we are living at a time when acquiring beauty is thought to be available only to those with money. The Mayweather example highlights the difference between acquiring beauty and spending a lot of money. The goods that Mayweather purchased for his current girlfriend, whatever they were, were certainly expensive but they actually may cost too much to be beautiful if they were given by an unchanged man. I can afford everything in my life and that’s what lends those things value. And when I am broke, without a dime to spend, I can always straighten, clean, wash, cook, or iron something that will then provide me with the beauty I desire. The Thorntons showcase the availability of beauty in the most oppressed circumstances to those invested enough to invent it.

Just in my casual reading this weekend, I came across two articles dealing with the subject of anxiety, Madeline Levine’s “Raising Successful Children” and Shaun Groves’s “Parenting A Child with Anxiety.” They were both attractive articles to me because I have spent a good bit of my life worrying. In fact, when I was a child, my mother decided that it was best not to even bother punishing me because I spent so much time punishing myself with worry and fear that she thought her time would be better spent helping me to calm down. While I’ve gotten much better, my Mom still thinks that I’m too hard on myself.

What I’ve gotten better at is not surrendering so much time to fear and dread. I used to stew in worry. I was someone who was always aware of being afraid and worrying and I would talk about my fears or play them out in my head. Paying attention to my fears enabled me to articulate them to myself. Interestingly, once I knew the root of my concerns, I could actually move on, but I would only move on to new fears and concerns. The insights, however, always mattered and one of the chief ones has been that worrying can take up a lot of time. Time has always been precious to me. I think of time like many Americans think about money–I practically worship it. Time has to be the one thing that I have always wanted most to control and to preserve. When I realized how much time was better spent on concentrating my intellectual energy on other things, I kicked myself out of the fixed grooves of anxiety.

Playing sports was the one thing that brought the most consistent dread into my life. To this day, my one recurring nightmare involves me dreading the starting line of the 400 meter dash. In the dream, I never actually stand at the starting line, instead I am usually walking around trying to think of a reason that might convince my coach to withdraw me from the race. The pain of running the quarter is so great that I used to wonder if being capable of running it was a curse and not a talent. The fire that blazes in your lungs and the heat that settles into every possible muscle in your body and weighs it down, crushing it, pains me to even think about! I have such tremendous respect for Sonya Richards-Ross. I have always pulled for her and I was more than delighted to see that she won the gold medal in the 400 at the London Games. Her poise masks the strenuousness of her event.

I can’t help but recall how much emotional and physical pain running brought me whenever I watch track and field. Overall, I derived very little pleasure from being a competitive athlete. I never liked competition–EVER. Even as an observer, I only really enjoy it when I don’t have a serious investment in the athlete or the team. If I’m invested, then it’s best for me to watch the contests pretty much like I’m watching the Olympics, which is to say by knowing the outcome in advance; reading about it. I like a sure thing. Michael Jordan was a sure bet. Michael Jordan made me believe that you could count on something in sports and that’s why he ranks as my choice for the greatest competitor of them all.

Aside from ending my athletic career, the other thing that has helped me to manage anxiety is surrounding myself with people who are very good at playing the cards they are dealt. My mother is the Michael Jordan of playing her hand. When I shared my concerns with my mother about handling my father’s impending death, I remember at one point saying that I just didn’t want to deal with the emotional toil and the logistical matters that come with attending to death, and my mother’s response was to say, “well, you’re going to have to.” And she was right. I did have to. It was clear from what she said to me that there was nothing to brood over. While I think it’s important to have people in your life who will listen to you cry, you also need people who will help you move past those tears because to my mother’s point, living requires that attention be given to the inevitable despite what you might want.

Recognizing life’s demands and some of its inevitabilities, I have learned to be much more discriminating regarding how I make choices. I realize now that so many of my earlier choices were based on my failing to fully examine the reasons for my involvement. Thus, I became a competitive athlete because I was good at it and so of course you should do something if you’re good at it. I’ve joined clubs because everyone says that membership would look good on your resume. I’ve gone to parties because it’s something that people of a certain age just do. I have since stopped making choices that involve the conclusions other people have reached for themselves. Now, I think about how I want to spend my time and decide whether or not making a particular choice will prompt anxiety or contribute to inner-peace. Knowing how to think for myself has brought me comfort and has added serenity to my life. Surrendering your life to someone else’s conclusions may just lead to anxiety, fear, and dread but knowing how to derive your own conclusions and craft your own terms for living can relieve you of that weight.

As the summer vacation nears its end for many American children, this charge to think for one’s self seems particularly relevant. School becomes important in this context not only because it helps to prepare young people for the world of work, which is what gets stressed, but because it helps them learn to use their brains. Forget the subject matter, learning to think over content matters for the quality of one’s life. If nothing else, learning how to think and disciplining one’s mind suits one for resiliency, which is something that the inevitabilities of life requires.