CUTTING STRINGS FROM THE PUPPET MASTER
by César Alonso Cruz Gómez Villafaña
Guns, Clothes and alcohol-As Tommy Hilfiger says, choosing the
right one(s) is our "declaration of indepen-dence." Or shall we
say we are 'in depen-dence' to our slave masters? Are we puppets? Are we
shackled?
Most people would be appalled, angry, even "pissed off" at being
called puppets or even slaves. And yet how can we bow down to Anheuser Busch,
Revlon, Nike or Smith & Wesson and still claim we're free? It seems
that we'd rather wear $150 shoes, stack our faces with makeup, strap ourselves
with glocks and tech-nines, and fill our bodies with malt liquor if it means
pleasing the puppet master.
Most young people, including myself, in ghettoes and barrios throughout
the nation claim we're hardcore by telling off our parents, families, teachers,
friends, or even probation officers as we state with great pride, "Shit,
you don't control me!" Ironically, most of us do so while wearing Guess
or Tommy Hilfiger clothes with St. Ides or Olde English breath foaming out
our mouths. And we still have the nerve to wonder who controls whom? Just
take a Guess?
We flock to stores, swapmeets or flea markets seeking that name brand of
acceptance. We'd be willing to spend our babies' money for that brand new
shirt or blouse. We'd be willing to sacrifice our daily bread for some of
that "sweet" smelling perfume or "rough" smelling cologne.
We'd even kill for a pair of shoes. And as our minds take one step closer
to the torture chamber the puppet master, a.k.a. Corporate Boss, grins with
a fat wallet filled by our desire to fit in, to be part of the middle class,
to be in style.
Your mind and soul has been captured and taken captive by the motherf--n
puppet master. (B-Real and Dr. Dre-Puppet Master, 1997)
On weekends, or for some of us on a daily basis, we flock to super markets,
liquor stores and parties seeking the libation of our incarceration. We'd
even be willing to pay money to act foolish, get dizzy, throw up, possibly
explode with anger or rage, and lose brain cells-all for the sake of being
"real." Some of us would even practice it three to four times
a week. We'd put into our temple, our body, poison because a frog on TV
can make the shit seem funny. We'd put poison in our body for its glorified
by our so-called heroes/heroines of color 'who are themselves being used
to perpetuate the enslavement of our generation.
Most of us couldn't care less to know about Tijerina, Tupac Amarú,
Assata Shakur, Frantz Fanon, Lolita Lebron, or our Indigenous elders, but
we can name Budweiser, Miller, Coors, Mickeys, Corona, Tecate, St. Ides,
Olde English, and Colt 45 as if they were our best friends.
Black and Brown youth proclaim Black and Brown power, and yet all we devour
is the fastfood chain of McD's, inhale the smoke of the Marlboro man, and
drink the poison of Coca Cola or Pepsi. We're partly right-there is power.
Power for multinational corporations who pimp, exploit our sisters and brothers
all over the world. Power for companies like Nike who make their shoes in
Indonesia for 47¢ an hour, Guess shirts in Los Angeles and New York's
sweat shops under slave conditions, Disney memorabilia in Haiti for 17¢
an hour, and Ford Motor vehicles in Mexico for $1.51 an hour, just to name
a few. There is power. Power in our ignorance, in our consumption, in our
corruption-and in our destruction.
The words, however, of a young brother still ring clear to this day. He
asked, "Damm, brother, are you against everything? What the hell you
want us to eat, drink, smoke, wear or ride?"
I smiled and replied, " Maybe it's time we fast, unrobe and walk."
"What? You must be crazy?! You want me to not eat, get naked and walk?
Shit, you've lost your mind."
He may be right. I've lost my mind. It's always feeling a bit lighter as
the chain strapped to my head begins to fall off. I smiled once again and
left him with this, "Young brother we may need to fast to purify the
poison we've put in our body. We may need to unrobe, slowly, to show what
we've been hiding. I don't mean literally stripping, I mean unveiling the
skeletons in our closet. Finally the time has come we may need to stop driving
and start walking. This can no longer be a sermon, a lesson, or one person
preaching. The time has come to stop talking and start walking. If not,
we may be headed for our own line chalking.
June-July 97
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