Tag: Counter Culture

Words I Love Pt. 18: Contronym

What is there not to love about the word Contronym? It’s usually not in your average dictionary, but hunt around and you’ll find it. It’s a word that means one thing and also means pretty much the opposite. True to form, it’s definition doesn’t truly give you a definitive understanding so here’s an example: Bound means both heading to a destination AND restrained from movement. I know, I know; it gives off an oxymoron vibe, but it’s actually better at being an oxymoron than an oxymoron. Where an oxymoron would say, “By getting on the picket line they were FREEDOM BOUND”, a contronym simply encompasses that contradiction in one word: Bound. It basically did all the heavy lifting for that oxyMORON. Advantage Contronym.

The contronym is more of a concept than just a word.  It’s a loadstar in speech, guiding us to one very important understanding: language is both the path and the destination, equally beautiful in its practicality as it is in its futility.   Everyday our survival relies on how well we communicate our needs to others, but, at the same time, we can exist just a few poorly chosen words away from our own destruction.  You should thank your nearest contronym because it is through it that we can see the dynamic force of language.  Language is like light in how it changes into a wave or a particle depending on what is needed to exist.   

Ironically, no matter how Language frantically evolves and morphs for its survival and relevancy, it will always be made ineffective by a look or a feeling or a picture. Ultimately, Language itself is a contronym because all the eloquent words in the world cannot define the most underwhelming of sunsets.

I Blame Fractions

​As rioters from the Cult of Trump ravaged one of the emblems of American Democracy, I realized something.  Just beneath the abraded veneer on the final layer of civility and decorous political discourse in this country, I discovered something that goes beyond the causes of this violent travesty at the Capitol.  People were quick to blame a demagogue that is beyond irresponsible or a demographic of people that are undereducated, filled to the brim with resentment and armed with both presumed and unconscious white privilege, but, although those are factors, I think there’s more to it.  I believe the true culprit is math; specifically, the fraction.

​Just like the foundations of a building, the foundation of a society must be constructed to hold the weight of posterity.  Our country was founded with the cement of liberty and rule of law, but, unfortunately, it was reinforced with the rebar of racism, classism and anti-intellectualism.  The founding class of this country had difficulty reconciling all the different kinds of freedoms that would result from gaining sovereignty.  Consequently, that group chose their own personal freedom and let everyone else work it out for themselves.  As a consequence, the political and military leaders were led into a higher stratum where they were surrounded by the wealthy merchant class that jockeyed at their feet for position.  It was in those conditions that the 3/5 Compromise was born.  The 3/5 Compromise was an agreement between representatives of the Northern and Southern states in 1787 that determined that each slave was worth 3/5 of a white man.  One might wonder, since the forefathers had already achieved the heights of hypocrisy by ignoring the slavery issue during and after a war for independence and freedom, why on Earth would they care about assigning a slave an official value?  The answer is that the North wanted tax revenue and a national partnership while the South wanted census-based representation and a dominance in the agriculture trade aided by slave labor.  This compromise was negotiated by the political class even though they knew it to be untenable as a long-term solution.  The founding class didn’t level with the farmers and agricultural merchants of the South; therefore, the South went about building a culture and an economy on the unsound, immoral foundation of slavery.

It all began with that fraction. It laid the groundwork for the harmful American approach of not leveling with folks…well certain folks. It would seem some folks have a tougher time dealing with the reality outside of the status quo or maybe they’ve just never been given the opportunity. After the Civil War, the South quickly began to collapse, accelerated by the bursting of the agribusiness bubble (profit margins change when you have to PAY your workers). Consequently, Southern culture resorted to counterfactuals and began to cling to the “majesty” of antebellum South along with all its accoutrements – like the Confederate flag. And still the political class couldn’t level with them about the importance of moving on and progress or even the facts of changed circumstances. It’s much easier to let people live in their reality than to take on the the task of helping people work through the stages of grief; moreover, why not make a buck or gain position by telling people only what they want to hear (or do both like Fox News). Nevertheless, it all started with 3/5; it’s just as I always said to every math teacher I’ve ever had, “Fractions Suck!!!”

Ethics in Bizz 101


​“He found the press and Flintstones all through the apartment!” one young man said to other in a dark recess of a sixth floor staircase.  “I used to love eating Flintstones when I was a kid,” the teen then said, while absent-mindedly hitting the side of his hand against the coarse, gray walls of the stairwell.

​“Maybe we can reminisce about childhood later… if Kool don’t fuckin’ shoot me!  What happened next?” the other young man asked.  He wasn’t scared.  His voice did harbor a slight tremble, but it was due to a stream of anxiety coursing through him, not fear or nervousness.  He could also feel a slight shake in his hands, but he carefully concealed that in his Polo varsity jacket.  He knew to never show anything that even looked like fear, not even to someone he considered an ally.

​“My fault, bro… relax…yeah, but he was telling a couple of the others he wanted to pop you if he saw you over that way today…” the first teen finished.

​“Twist! What the fuck, bro!  What kinda info is this?  Is he tryna shoot my ass or not?  Did he link up with any of those boys from the back building?  Can I sneak back and get some of my shit?  I need answers on shit like that…You out here distracted.  I know you since we was kids…You wanna see me dead?” the young man finished.

​“Damn, Bizzy…my fault.  I ain’t know you was scared like that,” Twist replied.  Bizz was very disappointed in himself for losing it and so clearly giving off an impression.  It was the wrong impression, but still an impression.  In fact, Bizzy felt far removed from fear; all he felt, at that moment, was frustration with his slow-witted friend.  It seemed his friend wanted him to be scared, so he needed to play it that way; any denial or show of strength felt like it would, ironically, put him in a weaker position.   

​“You wouldn’t be scared!?!  He tryna “pop” me… like does that mean kill me or just punch me in the face?  I can live with one but not the other,” Bizz said jokingly, while taking his left hand out of his jacket displaying a slight tremor.  As mentioned before, these two young men had known each other for years.  That fact bred in Twist a sense of familiarity he mistook for knowledge.  Twist thought that, like himself, Bizz told jokes when he got nervous.  This wasn’t true, but Twist, in that moment, conspired with his fragile memory to create that reality.  Perhaps, he wanted to believe that Bizz had more in common with him than just the environment.  Perhaps, he thought this quirk could be the by-product of a deeper, more fraternal bond.  Of course, Twist could never consider the truth: Bizz was rarely ever scared or nervous, but, instead, in a perpetual state of anxiety that he strictly managed, beside the outlying and occasional shaking.  

​“Bro, relax!  He saw you was making fake pills, but his count was good and a couple of his girl’s friends took some of his work and was lit!  So you good!  You definitely gunna have to pay for trying trade under his name, but anyone dumb enuff to buy ground-up Flintstones instead of pills aint none of our clientele.  At most, I’ll bet he’ll tax you, but I don’t see him calling Steel and dem nuts,” Twist said before slapping Bizz’sshoulder with the intention of buoying his spirits. 

​Bizz fingered a stack of money in his jacket pocket.  He would be taxed, but didn’t care because apparently no one in Kool’s crew knew shit about the catalytic effect of vitamin C on MDMA.  Kool didn’t realize his “count” was off by several hundred doses.  All of Kool’s product was milligrams lighter on the “Molly” side (Along with many other things, Kool dealt in two types of ecstasy: Molly and Stacks) courtesy of some ground-up Vitamin C.  Moreover, the press he bought off Amazon was going to be used to skim off ecstasy stacks (which is just street jargon for dose levels).  Disappointment panged inside of Bizz again because he didn’t even get to that part of the hustle before he drew some attention.  He was seemingly busted by a bunch of no-accounts before he even really take off!  What was he going to do with all those caffeine pills back at his auntie’s apartment?

“Anyway, bro, if you scared just say you scared! Kool loves shaking cats up. Just go there and let him do his whole schtick. He’ll have that old .40 out and talk his bullshit, but after that you’ll be back, because we need you. And shit, I need you! We been making moves forever! Come on!” Twist finished before putting his arm around his friend. Bizz smiled even though he was thinking about how many times he’d skimmed off his friend throughout all their countless endeavors.