​[Warning: The following essay contains content that some readers may find, well, disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.]

I want to rap about white men for a moment if that’s cool. Not all of them; just a disturbing subset. Think of this way: Although the vast majority of mass murderers in the United States have been white men, we also know the vast majority white men aren’t mass murderers. Right? So chill and hang with me for a bit.

The dudes I’m thinking of are guys who, in certain settings, may wish to dap up a brotha like they’re “fam.” They may even roll with hip hop and flow easily with those warning-label lyrics – all of them – when rapping alone or in the safe company of friends who share roughly the same melanin content in their skin.

However, many are also the same dudes who have been and continue to be whipped up by demagogues like Donald Trump, the, um, 45th and now 47th President, as they struggle with a condition known as Toxic Male Fragility, or TMF.

​While TMF symptoms have been present for at least several generations (more about that later), it reached near epidemic levels in the U.S. around the time of the kneeling protest started by now-former NFL quarterback Colin Kaepernick and has persisted ever since. A quick recap: Seeking to call attention to racial inequality and police brutality against Black Americans, beginning in August 2016 (a presidential election year, by the way) and into the first Trump administration, Kaepernick waged a silent protest by kneeling the during the playing of the Star-Spangled Banner before the start of NFL games. The protest was not widespread initially. But as it continued into the 2017 season, more than 200 other players would later join Kaepernick after Trump demanded team owners to fire players who protested.

Never mind that Kaepernick modified his method of protest from sitting during the song to kneeling at the suggestion of a supportive former Green Beret, with whom he’d spoken and whose opinion he valued greatly. That didn’t stop Trump, TMF-in-Chief, from seizing on the protest and transforming it into something else altogether.

Trump shows particular zeal in going after Black people of a certain stature, most notably in trying to challenge the citizenship of Barack Obama. In a twisted way, his unfunny and abhorrent antics call to mind Yogurt’s advice to Lone Starr in the Mel Brooks’ comedy Spaceballs. “Use the Schwartz!” Yogurt says. In a similar vein, whenever Trump, in his little mind, faces some adversity, an apparition of the diminutive Alexander H. Stephens appears on his shoulder to urge: “Use the racism!”

Kaepernick’s protest was initially pushed as an affront to the American flag. However, this symbolic argument didn’t gain much momentum, possibly because those who might have been offended had no issues with Robert Ritchie Jr., in his grungy Kid Rock persona, wearing a desecrated flag like a dashiki or admiring a buxom blonde babe in a revealing stars-and-stripes bikini. A current example of U.S. flag desecration by a “real patriot” on the Right is the stars-and-striped handkerchief that Pete Hegseth stuffs into the breast pocket of his ill-fitting suits that he wears to cover up his white Christian nationalist tattoos. (By the way, Pete, I know a terrific tailor here in town I could recommend, that is, if you were fam and not afflicted with TMF.)

So what did the TMF-in-Chief do next? Trump, a non-veteran whose daddy finagled draft deferments for alleged bone spurs during the Vietnam War and who has subsequently disparaged the service and sacrifice of those who’ve served and died, upped the stakes. Kaepernick’s actions as well as that of the other professional Black athletes who joined in was conflated as an assault on our veterans. But you see what the TMF-in-Chief did there, right? The subliminal message was clear: white men aren’t being accorded the respect and deference they so richly deserve in “making America great.” Moreover, cadres of TMF sufferers, many non-veterans themselves, became eager co-signers of the faux outrage.

Ever noticed how military veterans – the real, true warriors and not those who simply play one on Sundays – are almost always shown as white men? Archival footage of our greatest military triumphs in the twentieth century, be it in black-and-white or in living color, is rife with the gallantry of white dogfaces. It’s not criticism necessarily, just a fact, given the truly unequal way our society was structured when most of that History Channel-esque footage was shot.

Moreover, some of today’s white guys stricken with the same Toxic Male Fragility as the TMF-in-Chief may be the sons, grandsons, great-grandsons or relatives of the heroic men who stormed the beaches of Normandy and island-hopped across the Pacific through bloody battles on their way to Japanese mainland. And they tell themselves over and over: These guys – white men – paved the way and did the heavy-lifting in ensuring freedom, justice and the galactic funk for all in the U.S. How dare a bunch of coddled Black millionaires, who play a candy-ass brand of football on artificial turf, often inside climate-controlled stadiums, desecrate the honor of those men? Why, they wouldn’t know sacrifice if it hit ‘em upside the helmet. From there, it’s not much of a leap to start labeling them as “ingrates” while providing a convenient way to ignore the real issue.

The Vietnam War seems to hold a special place in their imaginations. In fact, Sylvester Stallone and Chuck Norris each re-fought the war for us in their movies, and this time the outcome was clear: the good guys won. Yet even in the more realistic and fact-based movies, the overwhelming dominance of white men for TMF sufferers must A.) not be questioned, and B.) be revered, above all else.

Earlier this year, I became embroiled in one of those infamous Facebook discussions with a bunch of dudes I don’t know from Adam about the movie “When We Were Soldiers.” The film depicts the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley at Landing Zone X-ray where the first major clash between the U.S. and North Vietnamese forces took place in November 1965. The original post stated how it was the most realistic combat movie ever about the war, with nearly all commenters expressing strong support for the claim. I’ve seen the movie several times, and have largely enjoyed it. But, boy, did I strike the proverbial hornets’ nest by simply commenting that there were far more Black soldiers involved in the battle than were depicted in the movie. About 31% of the ground combat soldiers in Vietnam were Black in the early years of the war, with a casualty rate of 24-25%.

To be fair, there were a few comments of support for my post about the omission. Still, a swarm of hornets felt a need to point out how many white soldiers died in World Wars 1 and 2. Others chimed in with, well, it’s just a movie; “Hollywood messes up all historical facts in lots of movies” – which spoke to my point – and the tried-true fallback statement, “we don’t have to make every discussion about race.”

I sighed.

However, my favorite comment was made by the dude who wrote:
​
“Since you are bringing color in it in a movie and talking about facts HOW MANY BLACKS FOUGHT IN THE CIVIL WAR TO HELP FREE THE SLAVES NONE ZERO ALMOST 400,000 WHITE MEN JOIN THE UNION AND FOUGHT AND DIED TO FREE THE SLAVES MORE FACTS SINCE YOU BROUGHT COLOR INTO TRUE WAR FACTS” [sic]

When I replied that about 200,000 Black men fought in the Civil War, and then inquired about why he was so “triggered by the fact the role of Black soldiers was excluded,” the dude shifted to complaining about the Black WNBA player Angel Reese and how Caitlin Clark, who’s white, is so much better.

Well, I still had some free time to kill and couldn’t let that pass. So I replied: “[Name], we’re talking about the need to respect and reflect the contributions of those who served and sacrificed in the military. Your hang ups about Black professional athletes is unrelated to the topic. However, I do encourage you to get some help for dealing with your racial insecurities. Peace out.” That concluded our back-and-forth.

I included portions of the Facebook debate to illustrate the currency of TMF. Secretly, I suspect the afflicted look at themselves in the mirror each morning and continue to wonder if they’re made of the same stuff as the old man or the old man’s old man. And while presumably grateful for those who serve currently, the foreign engagements of today’s professional military somehow seem to pale in comparison to the epic battles fought by yesterday’s citizen soldiers who put their lives on hold to defeat the threat of worldwide fascism. Not only that, in the words of some, “we don’t win at all anymore; we don’t win anything.”

A few years ago, a neighbor who I’d met on our subdivision’s Facebook page came by to pick up an older model treadmill the wife and I were unloading. Upon the arrival of him and his wife, I noticed a Combat Infantryman Badge (CIB) penned on the left-front of his ball cap.

“I see you have a CIB on your hat,” I said, glancing at the wartime medal. “Yeah, my father earned one of those in World War 2.”

(Background: The CIB is awarded to a U.S. Army infantryman assigned to an infantry unit engaged in active ground combat with an enemy force. The recipient must have been personally present and under hostile fire while serving in the assigned unit.)

The pudgy neighbor with a dad-bod build appeared caught off guard by my remarks. Was he surprised about my father’s military service, which involved direct combat against Nazi soldiers? Or was it a surprise that I even knew what a CIB is? Perhaps he was embarrassed, realizing that I probably knew the decoration is most certainly not worn on a hat but on the left chest of an Army uniform. I don’t recall the neighbor saying where he had served to earn the decoration. Iraq or Afghanistan maybe? Those conflicts would fit his age-range. Or was it a case of stolen valor?

So, how did this happen? I mean how did the children and grandchildren of the generation that defeated two world powers and fascism, choose to elect a draft dodger as president, come to reward the “debate culture” of talking over people where the whole point isn’t to listen, learn and respond but to only have your say as loud and aggressively as you wanna be!, and where some crackling dude can take smarmy pride in being called a “Nazi” on a nationally televised cable network show?

I’m inclined to blame it on the ‘60s, man. That was the beginning, it seems, of the slide of the white male psyche into bear-market territory. I recall hearing the lament of a Vietnam vet who, in the early days of the war, thought American servicemen would be greeted with flowers, smiling women and kisses upon liberating hamlets much like their fathers were in France, Belgium Luxembourg and Italy, as shown in those black-and-white WW2 newsreels.

There was also the Civil Rights movement, sexual revolution and women’s lib, “peace with honor” in Vietnam, the Arab Oil embargo and the Iranian hostage crisis. Once joined in a threesome with the hold-over, true believers of “segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever” and the Christian Right, the affliction metastasized.

Hey, dudes, I get it. It’s not easy being a man, living in the long shadow of the Greatest Generation. I, too, have questioned myself from time to time.

Could I, like my father and the men of his generation and grandfather’s generation, have marched off to Europe and Asia to fight for a country that, at the time, had zero fucks to give about me, and people like me? Could I have sat stoically at a lunch counter while a raving, snarling white mob talked shit, punched, kicked and spat on me? Would I have had the courage to run away from enslavement to God knows where, perhaps abandoning my family in the process? Could I have survived the Middle Passage?

Nevertheless, I’m prescribing 1,619 milligrams of the following antidote: In our ongoing quest to build a more perfect Union, rather than focusing on who contributed the most in order to claim and hold the top spot for all times, perhaps a better approach is to learn from the codes of conduct established by our forefathers – all of fathers, that is – during their times of crisis. Whether it was during armed conflict, peaceful resistance, or other challenges, respecting the true diversity that has made our country the envy of much of the world is essential, regardless of what the TMF-in-Chief and his minions may say.

In doing so, that’s when you really appreciate the power of our American story, which is: It’s not all about you, dude! It’s about us all.

That means white men are not and will not be the hero of all the chapters; nor are they the ever-present villains. Only an unscrupulous peddler of a poisonous elixir for those battling Toxic Male Fragility would try to convince you to believe otherwise. So, please, remain chilled.

In closing, I was born for such a time as this to help raise awareness and offer a cure. Yes, help is available for the white men afflicted with TMF, and for the women who love them.

©October 2025, Bob Campbell

​Driving home on July 1, 2020, at 9:30 p.m. after an evening medical appointment (which had been delayed a full day from my usual morning slot due to unforeseen equipment problems), the sun had set recently, replaced in the darkening sky by a waxing gibbous moon. The temperature had cooled about a dozen degrees from the daytime high in the low 90s.

​Traffic light, the two-mile drive along the surface streets from the clinic to I-75 was gratifying. The car windows down; sunroof open; Real Jazz on SiriusXM — “On Green Dolphin Street” to be followed by “A Love Supreme” — flowed from the speakers; amateur fireworks exploded silently in the distant sky before raining down glittery embers that vanished quickly from sight.

It was, for me, an extraordinary moment of pleasure of a different kind and the start of an entirely new journey.

I had just completed day eight of week two of proton beam radiation for prostate cancer.

​No one wants to be told they have cancer. It is scary, and the distressing news changes you physically and psychologically. You immediately start the countdown to the end of your life, rightly or wrongly.

I was just 47, with a wife and 14-year-old son, when I was originally diagnosed in February. It came less than a month after my mother was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer that would end her life by that Spring. I worked out regularly and had taken up running in my late 30s after having been a moderate smoker as a single twenty-something-year-old. Following a positive biopsy that showed the presence the cancerous cells in the prostate, I had come to learn far more than I ever wanted to about the disease — including the long-term survivability, the pros and cons of the different treatment options and its impact on male sexual performance.

Prostate cancer is cancer that occurs in the prostate, a small walnut-shaped gland in males that produces the seminal fluid that nourishes and transports sperm. The gland sits below the bladder and in front of the rectum in men. The prostate adds fluid to semen, and its muscles help push semen through a male’s urethra when he orgasms.

It is one of the most common types of cancer. Many prostate cancers grow slowly and are confined to the prostate gland, where they may not cause serious harm. Some types may need minimal or even no treatment. Early detection — when the cancer cells are still localized or confined to the prostate gland — offers the best chance for successful treatment.

Left untreated, however, the abnormal cells can grow to invade nearby tissue. They may even break away and spread to nearby organs, such as the bladder, or travel through the bloodstream or lymphatic system to a man’s bones or other organs. Once prostate cancer has spread, it may still respond to treatment and may be controlled, but it's unlikely to be cured.

Black men are 70 percent more likely to develop prostate cancer in their lifetime and twice as likely to die from it than white men, according to medical professionals and research literature. We also tend to get prostate cancer at a younger age. I have several family members and friends who have been treated for prostate cancer in recent years.

“There is evidence suggesting that this is partly related to inherited genetic factors,” says medical oncologist Andrew Laccetti with Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. “There may be differences in tumor biology that cause this cancer in Black men to progress faster or be harder to treat, but we need to investigate this possibility further to learn more.”

Additional factors include a history of mistreatment in the healthcare system that may contribute to mistrust among Black men and the lack of regular screening. Whatever the reason, delayed or no action at all can increase the likelihood of significant progression in the disease before the onset of symptoms. The disease killed my paternal grandfather about 40 years earlier after the cancer had spread before detection. (One of the proposed treatments for my grandfather at the time was a double orchiectomy, i.e., the surgical removal of his testicles or castration.)

My prostate cancer was detected early, thanks to annual screenings my primary-care physician insisted on. After feeling a small lump during a routine digital rectal exam (DRE), my doctor referred me to a urologist who then ordered a biopsy. The procedure — a particularly unpleasant and agonizing experience, which included days bloody piss post-biopsy — confirmed my fears of having the disease. It was later determined the prostate cancer was of a low-grade variety. (More praise for early detection!) So rather than rush into some type of aggressive treatment, my urologist recommended “active surveillance.” In place of surgery or radiation, the active surveillance (sometimes referred to as “watchful waiting”) would entail having a DRE and blood work every six months to measure the Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) in the prostate. PSA is a protein produced by normal, as well as malignant, cells of the prostate gland. A high or climbing PSA number can indicate the presence of cancer cells.

The less aggressive course of action was a welcomed relief, physically and psychologically. I had become acutely aware of the potential impact to my sex life after some treatments, including nerve damage that could prevent the ability to get or sustain an erection, no longer being able to ejaculate semen and incontinence. A prostatectomy — surgical removal of the prostate — also could invite complications, like a urinary tract infection that former U.S. Department of Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin experienced a week after his surgery.

I remained under active surveillance for eight years — from February 2012 until March 2020 — when it was determined the cancer had progressed to the point of requiring treatment. However, after years of relative stability in my PSA and unremarkable DREs, something changed. A sustained increase in the PSA (which had risen slowly but steadily in the two or three most recent tests by early 2020) and another biopsy confirmed the disease progression. The cancer was still confined to the gland, thankfully, but subsequent genetic tests revealed it to be a more aggressive, high-risk strain.

I was again faced with the weighty decision on treatment options -- prostatectomy or radiation therapy. There had been some technological advancements in radiation therapy in the eight years since my original diagnosis. Upon consultation with my radiation oncologist, independent research and conversations with my supportive wife, I opted for the more advanced proton beam radiation, a form of external beam radiation therapy. It is a highly targeted and painless treatment that destroys cancer cells in the prostate while reducing radiation exposure to the bladder, rectum and other gastrointestinal organs. Studies suggested fewer side effects with proton therapy compared to traditional radiation, which exposes healthy tissues and organs to a wider field of unnecessary radiation. And surgery was off the table for me.

My proton therapy regimen — which would last for 46 days — included androgen deprivation therapy (ADT). Weeks before my radiation began, I had received the first dose of what would be three painful ADT injections in the abdomen over 18 months, administered at six-month intervals. Because I had been diagnosed with high-risk localized prostate cancer, ADT is an important treatment, my radiation oncologist counseled. The hormone suppresses the androgens that stimulate the growth of prostate cancer cells, providing for more effective radiation treatment. 

The reasoning seemed solid for this patient. What I did not fully appreciate was the effect low- to zero-testosterone would have on an active, physically fit man like me.

The main androgens in the male body are dihydrotestosterone (DHT) and testosterone, essential ingredients for the male libido and sex drive. With little to no DHT and testosterone circulating, there would be no sexual eruption.

I have never felt more alive than when in the passionate hold of physical intimacy. Moreover, my pilot light was an eternal flame, ever ready to fire up my desire for sexual gratification. In the early days of my marriage, my wife and I routinely stole away for a little afternoon delight, taking full advantage of the fact our offices were just minutes away from home. Even after crossing the half-century mark in age, when, as a young man I was sure my libido would have cooled by then, the flame continued to burn as intense and bright as ever.

Our intimacy is connection. It was a form of disconnection, too, from all that bothered or worried me, if only for those treasured moments. A salve for wounds. A fix for all that was broken.

Where would I find such blissful detachment now?

I recall vividly the instance everything changed. After a short-lived period — a couple of weeks — of heightened libido following the first ADT injection, my pilot light was finally snuffed out. So abruptly, in fact, I could not even pretend. It was gone — snap! -- just like that. I had been chemically castrated essentially. The heat of passion replaced by daily hot flashes — a side-effect of ADT — that left my face and torso drenched in sweat.

Fortunately, I managed to continue my regular morning workouts over the succeeding weeks of treatment, even as my strength and energy flagged somewhat. And then one day during a treadmill run, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. What I saw unnerved me — a short, sluggish and unattractive man with diminished muscle tone in his legs and arms, and a slightly protruding belly pressed against a sweaty t-shirt.

Already, I had become increasingly nagged by second thoughts of whether radiation was the best option, given the daily commitment Monday through Friday, among other reasons. I was averse to undergoing a prostatectomy, particularly at a time when the COVID-19 pandemic was raging and so much was still unknown about the virus’ transmission and its spread in the hospitals. The prospect of significant sexual dysfunction, catheter and other potential side effects also worried me considerably. Proton beam radiation would spare me the severe side effects, I hoped. However, I learned that while that may be true, there were sexual side-effects, nonetheless.

Of course, I’m not as fast as before. I can no longer touch the rim on the basketball court. My hair is undeniably grey. My career prospects have largely plateaued, as I am long past the day of being considered the rising young Black guy with talent and potential. Yet despite all that I maintained a certain sexual prowess with my wife. Now, this “old man’s disease” left me feeling like an aging prizefighter, trying desperately to recapture the power, speed and finesse of my younger days. My reflection that morning was visual proof that time had caught up with me, delivering a sobering reminder of my own mortality.

Prostate cancer treatment cannot be discussed adequately without addressing its effect on male sexuality and performance. Although Black men indisputably face a higher risk of getting and dying from prostate cancer sooner than non-Black men, the psychological impact may be even greater for those of us whose virility and “BBC,” according to popular culture, is the stuff of myth and caricature. Nonetheless, the disease and its treatment delivered a kind of next-level vulnerability, the sort of which American men of a certain age of all races have been taught since boyhood to suppress.

I almost stopped running that morning to spare myself more despair. Looking back, I am glad that I did not. I got stronger as I ran on. Not trying to hide anything, my grey hair that once looked tired, beaten and matted became a source of pride. I had, in fact, accepted some time ago that it was my truth. And I resolved right then: I am more than the two-dimensional man in the mirror. 

However, the radiation therapy would continue for another six weeks. So, too, would the daily challenge of trying to maintain a full bladder, as required while I underwent radiation, without pissing on myself. Laying on the treatment table for prolonged periods — beginning with 45 minutes at outset before gradually tapering off to 30, 20, 15, 10 and 5 minutes in the weeks to follow — with an explosive urge to pee sometimes felt like too much to bear. The earliest weeks were, at times, torture, as I struggled to get my daily pre-treatment water intake right. Moreover, timing was crucial to allow my bladder to fill without it becoming unbearable before the treatment session concluded. The slightest interruption could upset my carefully orchestrated hydration regimen.

After being informed during a different appointment of another delay in my scheduled treatment due to a network issue with the proton beam projector, the dam broke. Realizing I would need to piss and then drink more water before my session began, I could no longer contain the pent-up frustration I had begun to feel about the entire medical ordeal. So, I snapped a “What!?” at an otherwise compassionate proton beam radiologist who had the nerve to ask an innocent question of me, as I busied myself with some meaningless distraction on my iPhone. Her alleged offense was having the audacity to disturb me while I sulked in a corner of the waiting room when, in actuality, it was merely her attempt to offer a few words of empathy, some comfort, for the annoying setback. (I never got the opportunity to apologize. She had retreated behind the double doors to the treatment area, leaving me alone in the waiting room.)

A month after completing nine-and-a-half weeks of proton beam therapy, I expected a quick return to sexual normalcy but that would not be the case. My libido was still dormant, and our intimacy uncomfortable as a result of the radiation. In the ensuring weeks and months, I feared that I had moved away from being merely disinterested in sexual intercourse to feeling borderline repulsed by the thought of it. My mood felt increasingly like surrender. In the absence of the urge for physical intimacy, I became lost and fearful of embarrassment.

Years ago, as a pre-adolescent, I remember sneaking a peek at one of my older brother’s Playboy magazines and snickering at a comic that showed a naked woman and man seated on a bed. The woman, looking down at the man’s concealed crotch, asks:

“How do you expect to make beautiful music with an organ like that?”

How different that joke felt now nearly a half-century later. Erectile dysfunction snuffed out the laughter. Even when I felt a flicker of desire, I worried it would fade quickly, as it had on previous occasions. Other times, my energy level was gone by the end of the day. I just want to go to sleep. The experience was a foreign invasion into a space where I once felt confident, protected and fortified.

Depression took hold. I longed for my old self. The current me, at the time, experienced no joy, no pleasure. Worse, I wondered if and when the thrill would ever return, even as the side effects of chemical castration, i.e., ADT, began to subside months later.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, the answer to my vexing concerns had already begun to reveal itself.

Music changes over the ages. The question is not whether it is better or worse than before. Instead, it is whether the music continues at all, making creative use of the instruments available at one’s disposal.

One afternoon in mid-July following a treatment session, I switched to Watercolors on SiriusXM for the drive home. I rarely tune into the smooth jazz station, preferring Real Jazz instead. In addition to classic jazz’s rich history, I enjoy its vitality, improvisation and the complexity of the mostly acoustic ensembles that create the sound. But, on this day, I needed a break and something different, enough heavy lifting for now. I had been irritable throughout the procedure and chalked it up to the dog days of treatment. I was only half-way through treatment and the thought of another four weeks weighed on me. At the same time, wishing for its conclusion meant wishing for the end of summer. That meant speeding up my life when the time should not be wasted. Perhaps, I figured, a different vibe of some smooth jazz would ease my anxiety. On this day, I heard the beautiful, melodic voice and lyrics of Ashleigh Smith as she, accompanied by Chantae Cann, sang “In the Rain." The song provided a reminder of how sometimes “you gotta make your own sunshine in the rain.”

Sometimes you've gotta laugh instead of cry
Smile if you can't find a reason why
You've gotta dance to ease the pain
Know that it won't always be this way
When your life turns your world around
And you can't seem to find your up from down
You gotta make your own sunshine
In the rain

A period of self-pleasure, indeed, during those treasured minutes of the song. For the charming lilt of Ashleigh’s voice was unburdening, not unlike my wife’s sustained tenderness from the first diagnosis years earlier through disease progression and multiple procedures to eventual and complete remission. (It’s been five years this August.) In hindsight, the music signaled that perhaps the physical labor I endured over those past several weeks — and in the weeks yet to come — was slowly giving birth to a new me.

Spirits lifted, I was transported in that moment back to that evening drive just weeks earlier when I witnessed from afar the fireworks’ glitter falling quietly and gently toward the ground. Right then, as before, I never felt more alive; blissfully detached.
​

By Bob Campbell
 
There are topics I’m afraid to touch as a writer. I’ve suspected this for some time, but only recently admitted it to myself.
 
The topics run the gamut of being emotionally tough, potentially embarrassing, unconventional, nontraditional or may project signs of a devious mind, at least to some people whose opinions and respect I value. So, reasoning my character might be at stake if I dare entertain them, I wrap those topics, those thoughts, in a security blanket of silence leaving my public identity intact.
 
No worries about addressing any nettlesome questions, like: How will this change me? What might this reveal about me? If I can’t hack this, then what becomes of me?
 
Actually, “afraid” may be both the wrong word and part of speech. Behavior that’s characterized not as an adjective but a verb. For my action, such as it is, where these fraught topics are concerned, is to “avoid” them. In doing so, the sometimes-messy business of introspection is dodged, like maybe that bullet with my name on it.
 
This strife – personal, internal, sometimes stifling my creativity and fruition as a writer – was laid bare for me by Bless US (ink and acrylic on paper, Brian Spolans) and Tug (black clay, Craig Hinshaw), two works in Buckham Gallery’s November 5 – December 3, 2022 exhibition, aptly titled STRIFE.
 
Bless US stars a neighborhood enclave with a distinctly working-class feel, which, in the unquestioned and lazy parlance of the mainstream media, means a wholesome community of salt-of-the-earth white folk. The wood-framed houses bleed – ooze, perhaps? – red and discolored white cloth from the first- and second-floor windows. White clapboard siding is juxtaposed with the homes’ darkly shaded right-sides, which then take on the quaint appearance of rustic cabins whose walls are made of stacked logs. Roof shingles resemble walls of brick.
 
Machine gun turrets sited as second-floor lookouts from elevated positions might be mistaken at first glance for TV satellite dishes, and may, in fact, have been used for that purpose once upon a time. Additionally, an assortment of artillery and missiles protrude through some of the rooftops in a manner after the NRA’s own heart. The private, gated domiciles are further safeguarded by sandbags in the driveways and barbed wire strung along sidewalks.
 
The street’s black asphalt pavement is cracked throughout. Overhead, an ominous black sky has descended upon this working-class neighborhood.
 
Flapping in the imaginary wind is an overabundance of Old Glory – American flags that dot the landscape, outnumbering the houses pictured, as some residences fly more than one.
 
A display of patriotism run amok, or polarization? Are they one in the same?
 
Out my way in northwest Oakland County, there is a house with a half-dozen or so, good-sized U.S. flags draped on individual poles along a country road. It’s a wall of flags. I wondered: Do more flags make one more American, or less? Does a single one or, perhaps, none at all?
 
Farther north along the same road and across the county line into southeastern Genesee where landscape turns more suburban, I then spot an American flag flown beside a McDonald’s flag outside the restaurant bearing the same name. Seeing the iconic red flag emblazoned with those golden arches flying high-above the restaurant compound helps alert weary travelers from a distance that a hot meal, with fries and a drink, is available right here and now at McDonald Land. And don’t you deserve a break today? Of course, you do. Right?
 
Does the presence of American flags, today, serve up a similar message for weary citizens? Maybe the nonverbal communique is meant to make it abundantly clear about who belongs – I mean, really belongs – and who is merely a visitor, subject to the rules, whims and wishes of the host. So, relax, and take comfort in knowing that you’re safe. You’re among Americans. The real ones, that is.
 
Consider this: I have an American flag hanging on an inside wall of my garage. It’s there, in part, to honor my father’s service in World War II. Still, my son, as well as several nieces, have questioned its real purpose. They have accused me of attempting to placate my white neighbors by appearing to be non-threatening by way of the Stars and Stripes. That’s because, in their minds, the American flag had been hijacked by those who seek to undo America by whitewashing its history and true identity. (After all, why else would you see the venerable Old Glory flown alongside a flag for “the former guy”?)
 
If that’s true, then not unlike the way I’ve protected myself with a blanket of silence by avoiding certain topics, does the citizenry believe wrapping itself in the American flag provides protection from the “dark skies” descending upon US?
 
After all, doing so means no more discomforting questions, like: How will this change US? What might this reveal about US? And what then will become of US? Yes, they can all be avoided.
 
Whether such private displays of the American flag, as captured in Bless US, is a sign of patriotism, run amok, or insignia of our polarization is in eye of the beholder. A symbol not of our unity but of our public strife, at least for some.
 
Hence, the Tug, a black clay sculpture of a short, thick and taut rope gripped by four hands – two each on opposite ends – displayed immediately left of Bless US. The intensity of the tussle is apparent in those dual-clenched fists, and the side-by-side placement of the two works struck me as very deliberate. As the two works from war-themed collection reflected, the struggle is real.

Bring your lunch and hear Bob Campbell the author of Motown Man as well as numerous non-fiction essays for Belt Magazine, Gravel Magazine and Forge Literary Magazine. A former newspaper reporter Bob is a native of Flint. He is the 2022-2023 Writer in Residence at the Buckham Fine Arts Project and manager of Marketing and Communications at Mott Community College. 

Flint Public Library
Harris RoomThursday, February 9, 2023
12:00pm - 1:00pm
www.fpl.info/event/booked-lunch-bob-campbell

​"Motown Man", the debut novel by Flint author Bob Campbell, is now available as an audiobook.

​Campbell teamed up with the renowned voiceover artist Greg Campbell for the audio production of the novel that book critics have called a “thought-provoking,” “sensitive and honest portrayal of ethnic and racial diversity within Flint and the country,” and “a perfect book … at this point in history.”

Although the author and voice actor share the same last name, the two are not related. But they did grow up together in the same southside Flint neighborhood, with the author just a year older than the novel’s narrator.

Published in November 2020 by Urban Farmhouse Press (Windsor, ON), "Motown Man" is the story of Abby and Bradley, an interracial couple who are set on building a life together in a faded factory town rife with veiled racial tension, marked uncertainty and on the edge of losing its identity in the early 1990s. But to Bradley’s younger brother, James, their relationship is a fool’s errand. The novel’s setting “could be Anytown, USA,” according to a review in East Village Magazine.

“I’m honored to have Greg, a childhood friend and now an accomplished voiceover artist, narrating 'Motown Man',” said Bob Campbell. “The novel is set in a Midwest industrial city like our hometown. So, he really gets the sense of time and place, and the characters that inhabit that space. His distinctive voice also has a resonance that not only captures the mood of the story but amplifies it.”

The audiobook, released on the one-year anniversary of the print edition of "Motown Man", broadens the reach to an audience that may find the format more conducive to the way in which they enjoy books or finds it hard to fit reading into their busy schedules. Audiobook sales rose 12% in 2020 – the ninth year of double-digit growth in the format – and shows no signs of slowing down, according to the Audio Publishers Association.

“Telling stories for their entertainment, artistic and cultural values actually predate writing and reading them,” Bob Campbell said. “Digital technology provides an ‘old school’ way of bringing this story to listeners. And Greg’s tone and delivery really brings it to life.”

Greg Campbell made the leap from television news to narrating film, commercial and audiobooks. He provided his voice for the 2021 Emmy award-winning documentary Shaw Rising about the oldest HBCU in the south. He has also voiced nationally aired commercials for Ford, during the Kentucky Derby, and Kumho tires featuring NBA All-Star John Wall of the Houston Rockets.

“I want to thank Bob Campbell for choosing me to do 'Motown Man'. I really appreciate being asked to be the narrator,” said Greg Campbell. “I truly enjoyed doing the audiobook. The book is well-written and made sense to me from start to finish. I loved how the book addresses the perceptions that Bradley and Abby had to deal with as an interracial couple and neither being afraid to speak their minds. 'Motown Man' is thought-provoking throughout and there's never a dull moment.” 

​The audio version, including sample chapters, is available from these retailers:

• Scribd
• Kobo Walmart
• Google Play
• Chirp
• BingeBooks
• Audiobooks.com
• NOOK Audiobooks

Print editions of "Motown Man" are also available wherever books are sold or by visiting bobcampbellwrites.com/purchase/.