Make sure you get a head wrap, an ankh, an African medallion, and some Egyptian musk, not to mention some spoken word poetry so deep that no one understands it and you’ve got the conscious starter kit. Add an afro, some cowry shells, Adinkra earrings and we’re good to go.

Is the incense burning?

Cool.

It seems this is the equation for the illusory conscious.

“Y’all know them niggas that I’m talking about? The ones that yall be seeing at the coffee house.”

– Phonte Coleman of Little Brother/ Foreign Exchange fame

Some folks say perception is stronger than reality, but I vehemently beg to differ. It was not Dr. Martin Luther King’s keen sense of fashion or Malcolm X’s debonair tailored suits that we honor them for. It’s their life’s works and contributions to society that makes them iconic.

I’d always worn an afro all of my life. When I would walk past the old men playing chess across from Park Madison in Plainfield, New Jersey, one would say “There goes Huey.” One day I asked my mom who was Huey (long before The Boondocks) and she told me. I immediately began to research Huey P. Newton and the Black Panther Party. I was energized, inspired and extremely curious to know more about the party. Looking like Huey wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to be a Panther. I wanted to embody those ideals. I began to memorize the 10 Point Platform and learn about all of the work they did. I also found out that J. Edgar Hoover, the cross-dressing head of the FBI at the time, called them the biggest threat to American security and labeled them domestic terrorists. The strategies of the state to thwart the efforts of the BPP attracted me more to them.

By the time I’d reached college, I became head of the Black Freedom Society at NJCU, established a book scholarship at my old high school and started volunteering every third Sunday at a food and clothing drive. In my mind, I wanted to give back and although I wasn’t leather draped and pistol waving, I felt giving back was more important than looking a certain way. All of the Panthers acted, they didn’t just put on a black leather jackets, pick their afros and call it a day. They were aware of the sacrifice in struggling for black liberation, knowing that they could possibly be jailed or assassinated by the police.

african unity tank.jpg — African Unity Tank

The Melanin Store

Fast forward to the age of instagram… insta… insta… Instant gratification. 140 characters per tweet. No room for feature stories or long form journalism, just memes twerking and Illuminativids, thirst traps and hashtags, retweets and pins. Attention spans dwindle as goldfish stay engaged for longer increments than the populace.

In this era of posting and posturing I see judgment raining from the self-appointed pedestal of the illusory conscious on those that do not wear the perceived “conscious” garb.

“Where are your sandles and capris?” – Dewey from The Boondocks

The image of the self-righteous activist is becoming far more reaching than those actually doing the work via the internet. This is incredibly misleading. Fannie Lou Hamer wasn’t dowsed in ankhs and African medallions, but she was a force in the black community and Democratic Party.

I’m in no way condemning social media, but it isn’t a physical world and perception ain’t enough. Saying #Justice4EricGarner is great, but tens of thousands of people marching on Washington Square in NYC on 12-13-14 says something more solid.

“Is every nigga with dreads for the cause?

Is every nigga with gold for the fall nah.

So don’t get caught up in appearance.” – Andre 3000

How one dresses does make a statement, but how one acts is far more powerful. We all know the types that spew off knowledge of historical facts and fallacies as a means of coming off as conscious, meanwhile they move like pimps and players.

The allure of being perceived as intelligent is a good thing, but if it is only to be mentioned as conscious, it’s a dead end road and a quest of self-righteous vanity. I remember organization after organization, I kept running into these brothers who would profess how the black woman is God, but right after the meetings, the talk of “loose-booties” and “thots” would commence. I wondered how much was just words of what sounded right to be perceived a certain way and how much was actually being lived. Just like folks who compete catching the Holy Ghost in church, spirituality ain’t an exhibition or competition.

One’s quest for knowledge is personal, internal and it varies. For some it manifests itself in outward appearance, but there is no monolith of black consciousness. There are folks with weaves and lace-fronts that are just as conscious as those with cowry shells in their locs. If we solely focus on appearances we miss the substance of the complete individual.

I suggest we sprout leaves from growth and evolution, and don’t just add ornaments without meaning.

Wake up black zombies