Woebeit made in America Africans will die and go to hell before they stop regurgitating stuck on stupid idioms. For example, “Money talks and b.s. walks,” has been ingrained in ghetto lexicon for so long until it has become gospel. Then again, it is gospel. The good Lord knows mankind’s biggest problem shall always be about the almighty buck. It’s in the “Book!” Right there in the 10th verse of First Timothy’s 6th chapter: “For the love of money is the root of all evil; which while some coveted after, they have erred from the faith, and pierced themselves through with the many sorrows.”

For sure, I can’t argue with the Book, because Channel 13’s Marvin Zindler wasn’t just cracking, but facting when he said, “It’s hell being poor.” Hey, I‘ve known that since growing up poor in Houston’s 5th Ward where Zindler’s daddy sold bolts of cloth (sisters fashioned their family’s wardrobes in those days), from a wagon pulled by a mangy nag that gave back to our community when he left sizable chunks of manure in our streets to fertilize the ‘hood’s gardens. Ghetto reciprocity aside, I still can offer a rebuttal to disprove that Black consumers truly love money. “If people loved money they would keep some,” reasoned little Winnie, whose response to one trying to borrow a buck was “Yeah, I have a dollar, and sense too.”

She, indeed, was the stingiest among her maternal Easter and/or fraternal Fonteno clans, whose frugality was legend in the da’ Big Nickel, back in the days when Black churches wholly depended on tithes and offerings. Faith-based funding notwithstanding, my momma’s idea of love was biblically based. Hence, if you loved money you would treat it like your Jesus or your children. She got as close to Jesus as possible, because He provided all her needs and she definitely kept a cautious eye on her bad ass boys at all times. In other words, saved by the blood and safe kids, somehow equated to stashing a few dollars under the mattress for a rainy day. Okay, I hear the Twilight Zone theme too. Hence, let’s regroup. For sure, since the Nov. 5, 2002 general election is only a few days away there are still a lot of politics that needs to be discussed in the ‘hood, on radio talk shows, in beauty and barber shops and even at our church houses. At least I hope our politically-astute leaders are making a concerted effort to discuss politics with their disenfranchised, politically-apathetic brothers and sisters who fail to grasp the concept of a ballot being a bullet that can be used to blow their adversaries away. Ergo, when I hear (supposedly politically- astute people, e.g., far too many Black politicians, community activist and even Black faces in high places in the media), 1950s’ rhetoric addressing 21st century politics, I laugh to keep from crying.

Woebeit, when my folks talk about money, they have to be joking because they sure sound funny. Naw, it makes us downright comical, insofar as PABA’s “First Fighting Preacher,” Rev. Ray scored a knockout when he said, “You can’t be a capitalist without capital.” On the other hand, far too many Blacks’ perspective of how the almighty dollar controls politics is a joke on us. One brother is convinced that the only way that Black folks are going to ever elect representatives that truly represent us, is to buy them. Oh yeah. You say it all the time brothers and sisters. In the very core of your brainwashed cranial circuits, you think any fool understands political reciprocity. Translation: He who pays the piper names the tune.

I actually hear brothers and sisters reason that we shouldn’t expect Black faces, elected in high places, to sacrifice their political careers by biting the hands that feed them. Especially, when poor folks don’t even have a bone to throw them. “When we start supporting our politicians financially, we can call the shots,” a brother pontificated on a radio talk show. “We know how the game is played.” Brother, that’s dumb as hell. Mayhaps, here I should explain where I’m coming from before taking you any further into the Outer Limits of logic. So can we talk? My dear brothers and sisters please believe that as long as you think money talks and b.s. walks, you’re going to crap out.

If you truly believe everything is controlled by the almighty dollar-- you will always be at the mercy of the houseman cutting the dice game? That old gambler’s idiom, “Money pays money,” loses its true meaning when misinterpreted. What the crapshooter is saying, is that if you can’t cover the bet, you can’t play in his game. Okay now, some of you brothers and sisters from the ‘hood (whose mommas camped outside your gambling daddy’s job on pay day to make sure the rent was paid), come on and pray with me on this one, because it’s kind of deep. There is no way that Black folks will never, ever have enough money to cover America’s bet.

Especially when they slip crooked dice into the game. You can certainly disrupt the game by catching the dice on every roll. Then too, you can simply bet with the house, because the house never loses. It cuts six and eight, ergo; you’re always playing against your own money.  Okay, let’s cut to the chase: Those of us who have allowed the mainstream media to give us a “Show Me The Money” mentality, have totally eliminated ourselves from the game. Hell, we ain’t never gonna compete with greedy White folks who can steal billions and never see a day in jail. Consequently, once propaganda convinces voters that Democracy (ideally based on one-person one-vote tenets, can be bought by the highest bidder), many conclude that if money decides the outcome, why vote? Hello political apathy.

Hey, ain’t no way I’ll compete with a dope dealer for a high maintenance sister, unless she knows a dollar can’t make her holler. What I’m saying is, the polls is the only place, in the land of the free, where poor folks stand just as tall as rich folks. So you politically turned off brothers and sisters get off your lazy butts and hump, en masse, toward those polls on Nov. 5, 2002. Money might talk, but only votes make career politicians, who aren’t term-limited, walk. I wonder if anybody knows where I’m coming from?