THE INCONVENIENT INQUISITOR

The speaker was spell-binding. His stories, the rhythm of his rhetoric, his commanding presence, his apparent erudition-- all of it had a way of pulling you in, placing you in a trance, and giving you the distinct impression that you were sitting under the shadow of a savant.

Colloquially referred to as "Prophet," his discourse spanned and drew upon a wide range of fields of study. History, economics, poly sci, ethics, and religion all were fields in which he gave the impression of having mastered. He had this jazzy improvisational thing going on and could extemporaneously rattle off all kinds of stats about the social, political, and economic status of Black folk. Stats about the heavy toll COVID has exacted on Black bodies. Stats about police killings of Black folk. Stats about race and mass incarceration. Stats about Black joblessness and poverty. His speech was sprinkled with references to White supremacy, White privilege, Critical Race Theory, Black Lives Matter, and Buck Breaking.

The words that flowed out of mouth sounded like music. He was Miles, Satchmo, Trane, Lady Day, and Sassy, with dosages of Hip Hop, JB, George Clinton and MJ thrown in for good measure. And everything was seamless stitched together like some resplendent quilt, telling a story of Black resistance, Black life, and Black love.

No doubt about it.

He was the shit.

At the conclusion of his speech, Prophet opened the floor for a brief Q&A. Everything was going along swimmingly. He handled inquiries with amazing aplomb, and it didn't hurt that he was funny as all get out. Seated in a chair on stage, he came across as both witty and wise. The epitome of erudition.

Then something happened. Something that seemed to irritate Prophet. There was this one questioner--an inconvenient inquisitor-- who kept pushing Prophet to explain and defend a statement he made several months ago on his YouTube channel. I had heard about it, although I had not gotten around to checking it out. The questioner, a youngish Black male, accused Prophet of being a purveyor of homophobia and failing, more generally, to appreciate the plight of the LGBTQIA community. This went on for what seemed like forever, although it was probably no more than a couple of minutes of back and forth, with each volley, though, ratcheting up to higher and higher levels. Finally, and clearly exasperated, Prophet raised up out of his chair, and said sternly and slowly:

"That's. Not. Our. Problem."

Ponderously hanging in the atmosphere, all of us instinctively knew the meaning that was packed in those four words. This was White folks’ problem. Or at least a subset of White folk. Prophet couldn't have been clearer: Our problem, Black folk problem, was police chokeholds, mass incarceration, White supremacy, joblessness, political disenfranchisement--the stuff that was constantly stifling our ability to breath--to live, to be free. We had our own battles to handle up on, and we--Black folk--had best not allow ourselves to get distracted and worried about other people's woes.

Not to be deterred by the tension building up, and the magnetic presence of prophet, the young man--rather than sitting down and biting his tongue--continued to press his case:

"Not our problem?! Do you not care, sir, that there's been a wave of violence against transgender and gender non-conforming people, with Black and Brown bodies catching the brunt of this madness? Does it not matter--do you not care-- that, of all groups, Black LGBTQ people are more likely to have had their employment affected due to COVID? You want to me--you want us-- to believe that that's 'not our problem?' Is that what you're asking me to be good with?"

A thick wave of silence washed across the room. Prophet fidget a bit, adjusted his glasses, and began to raise up out of his chair to answer this inquisitor from the back of the room. The rigidity of his body posture summoned up the image of one who didn't take kindly to being challenged, and who viewed "teaching" not as an inviting people into critical dialogue but as the opportunity to dump gems into minds of "students." I tried not to read too much in Prophet's tautness, but I couldn't shake the nascent feeling that he was much more at ease with monologues than dialogues; that ultimately, and perhaps even unknowingly, he saw us as passive consumers rather than as critical thinkers whose responsibility was to engage in mutual assessment of competing claims. I don't know--and I could be wrong-- but his body just seemed to give off the impression that, in the final analysis, his pronouncements on Black life trumped all others.

"That's. Not. Our. Problem."

As he rose from the chair to approach the lectern again, I momentarily closed my eyes, both resting and wondering just what and how Prophet was going to respond to that passionate query. The resting and wondering couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, although to be honest, I can't be quite sure. In any case, whether for seconds or days, when I opened my eyes, the entire room was vacant. It was like something, or someone had swooped down and scooped up everything and everybody. Nothing was left standing.

Except the inconvenient inquisitor.

Catch you on the flip side

Doc Greene