Taking a Knee

by G. Murphy Donovan

I have always been more than a little ambiguous about about taking a knee. For me, genuflection or submission is something you do to express humility before an idea or tradition greater than yourself.

Kneeling in church captures the idea.

You might also hit you knees for first communion, or any devotional reason for that matter. Then there is the ring kissing meme before a bishop. Hard to keep your feet in the presence of a crosier or red hat, even on a bad day.

Many parish clerics today will hit their knees before any altar boy whilst bishops look the other way.  But that’s another story.

Some men take a knee in front of their favorite squeeze for several reasons. You might want to propose marriage, beg forgiveness, or just show her a good time.

You might also have to take a knee when your knighthood comes through and you become Sir What’s His Name or Lady Pop Tart. Knighthood is now the British equivalent of a daytime Emmy.

Politicians hit their knees for various reasons most of which cannot be discussed in polite company. Let’s just say that azimuth kissing could be an Olympic sport in most state capitals including the District of Columbia.

A chocolate nose is like a purple heart on Jenkins Hill.

Nancy Pelosi took a knee the other day for a photo op and then she couldn’t get up. She was genuflecting to BLM, not to be confused with the BVM, and had to be ratcheted to her feet by a black staffer. Some say the Catholic irony is often its own reward, but medical experts claim that too much Botox will make you top heavy too.  

When your felonies catch up with you, and some Republican judge gives you five years; taking a knee in prison becomes a survival skill. Togetherness and man love, in concert, is the essence of community behind bars.

If the punk life was the good life on the outside, prison life is often a destination resort; three hots, a cot, and Bubba.

Before Colin Kaepernick came along, nobody took a knee during the national anthem. For most; we would stand, salute, put our hand over our heart or just fidget and mumble incoherently. The anthem is notoriously hard to remember, sign, or sing. Often we just smirked as some clueless celebrity missed all the high notes with aplomb.

The national anthem, not genuflection, might be the real reason folks are so touchy these days.

Bad music and violent sports have been fraying the American psyche for years. Female kick boxers, golfers, and NASCAR drivers take a bow here. Somehow, the Star Spangled Banner clashes with broken noses, split lips, gushing blood, grown men trying to brain spectators with golf balls, or 50 thousand crackers waving battle flags and screaming for a 200 MPH car wreck.

I have always believed that Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” is the more appropriate anthem to play before all American games. Not that self-abuse is the equivalent of professional sports per se</em>; but let’s face it, playing with self is the all-time, all-American, virtual or default setting for any mob.

Hat tip to all those snowflakes still snuggling with Google in their parent’s basements across the land.  

The NFL and NBA have now officially endorsed taking a knee before all televised performances. Such official servility is long overdue. It’s only fair. Where else but America could semi-literate, pierced, tramp stamped jock straps, become instant millionaires for handling large balls with finesse and skill?

Surely, taking a knee in private, or public, now signifies affection – or gratitude.

This not to imply that the NFL and the NBA are havens for the homoerotic or the equal of those plantations of yore. Surely modern servility has little to do with sugar, cotton, or manscaping – and everything to do with overpriced hot dogs, warm beer, and shoe endorsements.

What black kid doesn’t need a $200 pair of Colin’s sweat shop shoes with a NIKE swoosh?  A pair of used Air Jordan’s recently sold for $540K. Old shoes might be the new crack.

Soccer gets an honorable mention too.

“Futbol” is often a sugarless cookie or a lite beer, a kind of pointless mob scene. During and after the nil-nil match all the action usually occurs in the cheap seats anyway. Soccer is like the contemporary “polar bear hunt;” angry bored fans spending an afternoon looking for some clueless old white dude to knock out.

Let’s get back to Mister Kaepernick, the erstwhile NFL employee who gave us the stars and bars genuflection. Methinks the NFL owes Mister Kaepernick an apology – and his old job back. Colin has all the qualifications for the NFL; he’s large, not too black, tagged like the A Train, not too well educated, not too bright, with no perspective, especially if the subject is history or role models.  

Of course, a condition of reemployment might mean the Afro has to go. Given the NFL’s systemic and structural concern with brain damage, there’s no way that Kaepernick gets that new football safety helmet on over two years of hair growth.

So Colin, get a haircut and welcome back to prime time. We will all take a knee every Sunday until we expiate our white guilt, our “original sin” – or the NFL purges the few white guys that remain, whichever comes first.  

Bon Soir Drew Bress. You’re next, Tom Brady.

If the NBA can be all black and not look back, the NFL is obviously on the right track. You may have lost a battle Colin, but you won the argument with all those rich white dudes who own the teams, stadiums, and the leagues.

An all-black gridiron is better than reparations. Eric Hoffer put it best: “Passionate hatred gives meaning to empty lives.”

Vote for mobs, not jobs, in November.

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G. Murphy Donovan usually writes about the politics of national security.