For each of the past 28 Augusts of my life, as the long summer days eroded into fall and the growing shadow of another school year loomed large, there was always a fresh new season of NFL football to look forward to. In the '90s, when my beloved Buffalo Bills weren't a walking and talking shitshow (at least until the end of January), football was a weekly highlight and, most importantly, a way for me to connect with my Dad and Uncle, something that my normal world of video games and comic books couldn't afford. I'm still emotionally moved by the sound of Van Miller shouting over the raucous Rich Stadium crowd as the Bills overcame a 32 point deficit to defeat the Houston Oilers in a 1993 playoff game. Simply put, NFL football is deeply embedded in my genetic makeup, emotionally intertwined with Jackson 5 records and the embarrassing number of times I've seen E.T.
I love football. I love the drama. I love the escape. I love the community. The community aspect is my favorite part. I have a ton of great memories watching games with my Uncle, my Cousin, my Dad - even strangers become family for a moment when Doug Flutie bootlegs on 4th and goal, or Fred Jackson busts a 40 yard run in overtime on the road in Chicago. What I particularly loved about the Bills in the early '90s was the integrity in which they played the game. Their sportsmanship and never-say-die attitude echoed the type of character I wanted to exemplify in my own life and one of the few things I can say truly molded my outlook and helped define how I engage with the world today.
Moreover, having experienced my own fair share of prejudgment, my Jewishness helped define the empathy I felt for other minorities, as well as the impact I decided I wanted to leave on this planet. Civil Rights, both as an ideal and a cause to fight for, became a focus in high school and college and further established my worldview. Despite my focus, being a white male in America and benefitting from the privilege that entails, I wasn't able to see or feel the deeply rooted systemic racism that was continuing to devastate and marginalize people of color.
Then Trayvon Martin was murdered. A 17-year-old child, walking back from purchasing snacks, was profiled, stalked, and killed by an aggressor who was later acquitted, despite audio evidence that he engaged first after being repeatedly told by the 911 dispatcher to stand down. Conservative media blamed Trayvon's black hoodie for his death.
The systemic slaughter continued, with the list of unarmed Black men, women, and children growing over the past 7 years. Eric Garner. Michael Brown. Tamir Rice. Walter Scott. Alton Sterling. Sandra Bland. Philando Castile. Terence Crutcher. Nearly every case ending without accountability, as if these black lives did not matter.
I have no idea what it must be like to live in a society where your life is valued less than others, where you have to start a movement built around the notion that your life actually fucking matters. I can't imagine having to live with the constant fear of injustice and disproportionate violence perpetrated by the very people entrusted to keep us safe. And then you're told to stand up and honor this place -- the same place that enslaved your ancestors, fostered a rigged system to inhibit your economic mobility, and continues to murder your children without liability.
What would you do?
Colin Kaepernick did the only thing he felt empowered to do - he refused to honor an inauthentic and hypocritical ideal. Better yet, he showed respect by bestowing honesty to the ritual, forcing us to reckon with the fact that we can do better. We must do better. Honestly, I'm not sure I'd even have the wherewithall to kneel (vs. sit), employing a respectful and peaceful way to shine a small light on the injustice people of color have endured for centuries and continue to endure. When Eric Reid joined him, it became a movement, inspiring self-expression and catharsis across the NFL. I understand that it also angered those who couldn't see past the symbolism of the flag, conflating the message of racial injustice with a protest against America.
I almost boycotted the NFL last year, as it seemed pretty clear that Kaepernick was being blackballed for his peaceful stance against systemic racism. Unfortunately, President* Trump's stance confused the issue, with boycotts being threatened on both sides. I reluctantly participated in the 2017 season, but the NFL's treatment of the issue this offseason (forcing protesting players to stay in the locker room), combined with the continued unemployment of Eric Reid and Colin Kaepernick, has solidified my realization that I no longer feel good about giving my money, eyes, or ears to an organization that values the bottom line over the very Black bodies that help fill their enormous coffers. We vote with our wallets, and I vote NO MORE. Enough is enough.
Now is the part of the conversation where my skeptical friend calls me out on my hypocrisy. "Okay, you self-righteous asshole, if you insist on withholding support of NFL because 'integrity,' how can you justify continuing to listen to Kanye West? Isn't his behavior equally damaging the ideals you pretend to care so much about?"
That's a great question! In fact, it's a question that I have obsessed over and profoundly considered since "Slavery is a Choice"-gate. So, in the immortal words of the narrator from my Raider's of the Lost Ark read-along-book: "Let's begin now."
The moment I read about Kanye's infamous TMZ visit, I immediately made the decision to no longer support his music. I inwardly compared listening to Kanye to attending a Trump Rally. That said, quitting Kanye wasn't an easy decision - much like the Buffalo Bills, my love of his music runs deep. A few months back, Erin gifted me the 33 1/3 book (a series of books focusing on individual records) about My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. While I wouldn't allow myself to partake of Kanye's music, I was comfortable reading about it. I specifically wanted to better understand the creative process that lead to one of my all-time favorite records.
What started as a light read about a seminal hip-hop record quickly evolved into a deep analysis of narcissism and its effect on art and culture. This approach interested me greatly, as I struggle with and fear my own narcissistic tendencies. While Kanye's olympic-level vanity is such a turn-off for many, it's why I'm obsessed with him - I relate to his narcissism and admire how he processes and channels his self-exploration through his art. His music embodies everything I believe art should be: it's beautifully crafted, it challenges my point-of-view, and it encourages self-exploration.
As I continued to read the book, the siren call of Kanye's latest drop (Ye, a few days old at the time) became overwhelming, so I decided to break my Kanye embargo and give it a listen. The 6th track ("Ghost Town") stopped me in my tracks. Initially, the song reads like a Kanye checklist - begging for (and failing to get) external validation (check), the promise of "some day" (check), self-serving confession (check)...but the final verse floored me:
Oh, once again I am a child
I let it all go, of everything that I know
Of everything that I know
And nothing hurts anymore, I feel kinda free
We're still the kids we used to be
I put my hand on the stove, to see if I still bleed
Yeah, and nothing hurts anymore, I feel kinda free
I couldn't stop listening to this song. When it wasn't playing in my ear, it was repeating over and over in head. It would not stop. I was consumed by the idea that Kanye's solution to dealing with his demons is by shedding himself of his experience - denying his experience. I didn't really care so much about whether or not I agreed with his approach; I was more interested in how it made me feel and self-reflect on how lived experience is impacting my own pain.
And in that moment, I knew. I knew I shouldn't (notice I didn't say "couldn't") give up Kanye because his art (authentic art) is so important to my own self-reflection and growth. My third defining principle (in addition to resiliency and equality) is that art has always improved my life and guided me to be a better person. Whether through indulgence of others' or creating my own, art (music, film, writing, painting) has grounded me and pushed me to reconsider my own viewpoints and practice empathy. So in the case of Kanye v. Moral High Ground, I decided that (for me, at least) the good outweighed the bad. Art wins.
My intention of this essay is less "confession" and more "out-loud self-negotiation" (justification?) of how I am choosing to move forward and evolve. My choice is personal to me - I am not indicting those who will continue to watch NFL football or those who have had enough of Kanye's selfish antics. I like to believe we are all on the same journey to improve the world (Tikkun Olam, as it is known in Judaism), but this journey is long and arduous, and it isn't one-size-fits-all.
A particular passage from the 33 1/3 Kanye book stood out to me: "Every society reproduces its culture - its norms, its underlying assumptions, its modes of organizing experience - in the individual, in the form of personality." 2016 proved beyond a doubt that our culture is, at its worst, self-absorbed, greedy, and impulsive. What I am asking myself is:
"But is it art?"