Bloodletting is the Sport of the Colony — Practice Object Permanence

“American football is actually an excellent place of entry for examining the structures & power dynamics of racial capitalism, from the unpaid labor of Black college athletes at wealthy white institutions to the way the pro games are used for US imperial propaganda.”

-Bree Newsome Bass

I think I was in middle school when I learned about the fate of Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman, and James Chaney, who were murdered in 1964 while helping to organize civil rights efforts in Mississippi on behalf of the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE). As disturbing as it was to learn that their lives were taken by the Klan, of course with help from local law enforcement, what I will never forget is that during the investigation to recover their bodies, several other corpses were found, including five other African Americans who were never identified. During that “Freedom Summer”, and at every major junction in the story of America, when confronted with the insistence that Black people might want better, the nation’s response has always been bloodletting.

At some point, you just have to stop leaning into lies no matter how colorful the robes of patriotism can be. There comes a time when you have to understand that the performance of the colony was never a coincidence, never an unfortunate tragedy or a product of an imperfect system. The bloodletting, our blood, is not merely an inconvenience; it’s therapeutic for the empire, erotic even. Every police murder, every call for civil albeit ‘difficult’ conversations, and every declaration of unity in the midst of injustice prove that death in this settler colony, especially Black and Indigenous death, is the ointment used to grease the machine of racial capitalism. Following the ritualistic sacrifice of Black bodies at the altar of American freedom, the national news coverage of demonstrations by people in pain are hauntingly sadistic both in their willingness to obfuscate the reality of the oppressed — go study Ferguson or Baltimore — and in the eagerness with which they attempt to push the narrative that hearts and minds can change in such a climate. It all reminds me of a scene from the movie Hostel II, when a woman (a white one at that) undresses and steps into a candle-lit bathtub. Above her hangs another woman, gagged and chained to the ceiling. The woman in the bathtub lies down, brandishes a long scythe, and proceeds to toy with the frightened and shrieking girl dangling upside down. The orgy of brutality reaches its climax when the lady lying in the bath proceeds to slice up the tortured woman, making deeper and deeper slashes, and bathing in the blood to fulfill her erotic desire as the victim’s body — the life torn from it — sways silently. Make no mistake about it, that scene was a short documentary of real events past and present.

After George Floyd’s murder we were told that the country was waking up. Truth be told it has never sat easy with me how easily one man’s death can be turned into corporate think tanks and sports organizations pledging to “do better”, especially when all they essentially end up doing is a bit of pruning to the branches and leaves of the system, leaving the trunk and roots of the oppressive tree entirely intact. Honestly, I care less about how many black coaches there are in the NFL than I do about the fact that, while team owners speak favorably and nod with clenched jaws about diversity and community engagement, these capitalists quickly turn around and give big money to police departments and corrupt politicians who openly advocate for concentration camps. Under these circumstances one must ask the question, when you are aware that your life, the life of your brother, your sister, mother, father, and your children, when all these people you love are endangered because of the stubbornness of colonial mentalities, how can anyone continue to believe in — and parrot — words and institutions that do nothing but perpetuate orgies of sadistic bloodletting?

Before the Super Bowl kicks off there will undoubtedly be a multitude of uniformed men and women center stage holding the colony’s flag, ostensibly meant to bring us together. There will be the obligatory image of soldiers stationed somewhere overseas standing at attention while the anthem plays. At the sight of these military personnel on the jumbotron, the capacity crowd will pause from clicking their iPhones just long enough to cheer loudly in unison, a heart-felt shout out to the selfless individuals protecting all our freedoms. The entire spectacle will likely be topped off by an incredibly expensive death machine (or several of them) flying over SoFi stadium in Los Angeles, thus essentially reaching the climax of the imperial orgy scene. The evil brilliance of the sports version is that — unlike the bloodbath scene from Hostel II — there is no hanging body of an obviously distressed victim or other, just colorful displays of national pride and shiny toys we display to make invasion and destruction look cool. Meanwhile, the blood will come later, from the athletes on the field. They will literally bash their heads in for a big payday and for our amusement. If we’re lucky, one of the darkies will have a real heart-wrenching story of struggling to overcome poverty as a child, only just making it to the NFL because he found Christ and became super disciplined after watching his dad succumb to drugs and violence in his underprivileged community. But thankfully, because he is strong, can catch a pig-skin ball thrown in a crowd, and runs like he stole something from his masters, we’ve decided his presence is worthy and necessary. After all, his broad back is what holds up an industry that brings in billions of dollars a year, mostly for his employers. We can then use this young man’s trials and tribulations to show, yet again, that only in America are such wonderful things possible. He’s one of the good ones because he made it through the gauntlet. We can use him to show the goodness of the colony, so there is no need to bathe in his blood, we can sacrifice the less profitable others for that.

All the while, Amir Locke will still be dead, yet another casualty of a municipal army dedicated to protecting and serving. And just as all those other rotting corpses were found in the river during Freedom Summer in Mississippi, we already know there are bodies the wider public will never hear about who met the same fate as Locke, Sandra Bland, and Breonna Taylor. We know that Blacks dying is a therapeutic and sensual experience for the colony because they’ve always told and shown us that. Cutting off genitalia from hanging bodies is more than symbolic, it must be cathartic in the same way that I imagine burning (or banning) books is for people who are afraid to look at their family lineage and even more afraid that someone somewhere is justified in seeking vengeance against them.

I coach soccer and I believe in the power of sport to educate, to transform even. But context is always important, and nothing can be changed unless (at minimum) it is first accurately described. It’s actually a devotion to my craft that helps me understand the importance of being honest with oneself — and with others — as you partake in anything. The ability to see the bigger picture, to have an awareness of the world around you, is the most crucial skill I can help instill in any young player. This ability to perceive, to scan efficiently, is the chief skill that allows the athlete to be able to perform proficiently in concert with others in an invasion sport. And yet the furthest thing from my mind is whether or not any young player will make it pro. That is honestly their own journey. It’s a process of (often painful) sacrifice — as well as plenty of moments of dumb luck — to achieve a mastery of skills aligned with the needs of one’s prospective employers in an industry that has an incredibly short memory. That is the gauntlet of professional sports, all the best to anyone who embarks on such an odyssey.

I know that gauntlet all too well. I also know what it means to be Black in a settler colony where our bloodletting is a ritual. Bloodletting is the sport of the colony; it is the preferred method to maintain the racists’ equilibrium. Truthfully, this piece isn’t about whether or not folks should watch the Super Bowl. Watch it if you like, or don’t. Hell, enjoy it even, just know exactly what it is that you are watching. I routinely watch football of the global variety, usually the English Premier League. It means absolutely nothing to me that they take a knee before matches, because theirs is also a colony where our bloodletting, locally and abroad, is a ritual used to remind them of the majesty of their empire. I watch, and I choose to practice object permanence. The colony doesn’t cease to be oppressive because of expensive and well-choreographed pageantry. We’re still finding corpses everywhere; the walls are bleeding. They cry for Amir, as do I.