"And so," I thought to myself, walking down that long road from the train station, "how do the powers that be get to be those powers?" I pondered this question intensely, my mind reeling as the uneven concrete rose and fell under my feet. "Some worked from the bottom to the top, coming in as a mail room clerk or a shoe polisher. But today is not as yesterday, and now even getting in at the bottom floor is an issue for anyone my age, gender, and experience level."
I moved further on, the road becoming gradually flatter underneath me.
"Others used their connections, the people they knew to move into the positions they maneuvered themselves into. But alas, I know no truly influential people these days, having usually fouled relationships with people in higher socioeconomic echelons due to stark disagreements."
Mercifully, the curve of the ground underneath me completely left, giving my tired feet a bit of rest.
"Still others used illegal means, which I have done, but do not wish to do. It's silly to think that I'm not already being watched, given some of the things I've been involved in. Even statistically, I know that being a large black male, I am more likely to get trailed by cops then, say, a soccer mom with a minivan and two kids or a skinny white guy with a suit on in a newer car."
Still I walked, my pace never slackening as I moved gradually closer to my destination.
"So then, what do I do? I'm doing exactly what I'm supposed to do, which is applying for jobs. However, it seems that they choose to hire everyone other than me, which I suppose is HR's prerogative. My connections to the bourgeoisie are few and far between, and I don't desire to do anything illegal. Barring fame, I have very few options."
Now the sweat began.
"What are my options? YouTube, maybe? No...my friends, for the most part, don't seem to give much of a damn about anything involving my talents. Furthermore, I'm not exceptional at anything, nor do I desire to make a fool of myself in order to get famous. My writing? Well, I'm good at it, but I'm not sure that anyone would read it and be entertained. My book concept was already turned down by Kensington Books, and they hadn't even read it. Start a business? I have no capital, either liquid or monetary, to speak of."
I wiped my forehead, wondering when it had gotten so warm in March.
"So what am I supposed to do now? I don't have credit, backing money due to bad saving habits, or assets. I'm not extremely marketable in any specific way, and the friends I do have are either far away, unable to help, or uninterested in doing so. Jobs are not interested in hiring me, but I can't rely on my family and friends forever. I'm just...here. In Limbo. Stuck."
I stopped at this, cresting the sharp hill that I had turned up finally and looking at the massive structure that is Menlo Park Mall.
"Well," I said aloud, panting a bit as I let myself rest. "How does anyone with power get said power? They take it."
My mind raced as I uttered these words to myself, searching all of my morality, reason, and soul to find where this could have come from. True, those who had power all had to do something at some pivotal moment to attain their status, but to simply take authority? How did one do such a thing?
The answer came as clear as day to me in that moment: You just do. You do whatever you have to do in order to get to that power seat. Some played by the rules, but most broke them to get where they were. Countless examples flooded into my brain: Martin Luther King, Jr., Lil Wayne, Banksy, Thomas Paine, Zack De La Rocha, Che Guevarra, Donald Trump...so many people disregarded the laws that those who created the power structure had previously in place. Legends were born of those people, people who saw the norm and did not conform to it.
It was as my brother had explained chess to me. You see, there are White pieces and Black pieces. White, by the nature of being White, always moves first. This allows White to always be ahead of the game, setting the rules of play in it's own favor. It's just the rules of the game, and it has always been like that, as far as I have found. The challenge, therefore, of being Black is to maneuver seamlessly around the traps, pitfalls, and gambits that White sets up in order to make your side win. You are at a natural disadvantage as Black, but you can use that disadvantage to make White lose. You just have to work harder to do it.
Equated with the situation America is in, the parallels are palpable. Chess itself is a metaphor for life. "Black" in America is not only people of color, but all people with no money that are trying to make a living for their families. People of all races are affected by the shift, and we all are trying to figure out how to succeed in the face of "White." White, in it's essence, is the power structure as it stands today, including businesses, government, and the sociopathic millionaires that run the country. It puts things in place to prevent you from making upward progress, preferring you be a consumer or a subject of theirs, one of the gears of their machine.
However, if you can fight your way out of the machine, washing yourself of the oil and grime that makes the wheels turn, then what do you do once you get there? Do you become one of the people running the machine, as many of those who have do? Do you try and build another one, one that works better than the one you came out of with new materials? Or do you try to dismember the old machine, saving the greasy gears in order to make a machine that looks different, but acts the same at its core?
I wondered all of these things, realizing that I was still a greasy, dirty gear, one that doesn't spin, but is still in the machine. Should I break myself out of the machine now, or should I turn with it, slowly climbing through the muck and mire until I can finally poke my head into the sunlight of the privileged?
Do I really want to be here?
