​[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.

​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.

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

Reading Chevy in the Hole, the debut novel by Flint-native Kelsey Ronan, a question continued to nag me: What did Monae see in August that would allow such a relationship to take root?

He’s a nerdy, recovering drug addict who nearly died after overdosing in the bathroom of a Detroit farm-to-table restaurant and returned to his hometown of Flint to restart his life. She’s a senior “at the university” (UM-Flint, presumably) majoring in environmental science, volunteering at an urban farm in one of Flint’s many depleted neighborhoods and employed at Sloan Museum (the museum isn’t identified by name).

He’s also a habitual cigarette-smoker who crashes on his sister’s couch, doesn’t give a damn about much of anything, and is “pretty sure” Flint owes him something. Meanwhile, she’s motivated “to know why kids get fat on the free lunch program and the junk food their mothers buy at gas stations because they’ve got to take two buses to get to a supermarket.”
​
Oh, and then there’s this: In one of the nation’s most segregated communities and one with a checkered past and present on matters of race, he’s a 26-year-old white man and she’s a 22-year-old Black woman.

READ MORE

​"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.