The black male has been the favorite statistic of the media. Now, we’re about to make ourselves another. Today marks the day of the Million Man March on Washington, D.C.

That should freak them out. The last time anyone has seen that many black people in one place, either Dr. King was speaking or they were being hosed by policemen. Levity aside, music takes a back seat this week. Or does it? It’s time for that semesterly “music and politics” column. After all, I have the right (and the ability) to get topical.

A lot of small-minded people think the march is a “black men only” club. It has nothing to do with exclusion. God forbid a bunch of black men — black people, period — should get together and do something constructive. Others think it’s all about Louis Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam. The idea began with them, but it’s much larger than a corps of men wearing bow ties and distributing copies of “The Final Call.” It’s about empowerment. It’s about letting others know that there’s more to the black male in America than showing up in the police blotter or having a mug shot or chalk outline on the front page of the paper.

The black male comes in more flavors than thief, thug and con. There’s more to the black male than the beaten, handcuffed body on “Cops.” There’s more than the egocentric, flamboyant minstrel show of Deion Sanders. There are many more black men who are scholars, inventors, statesmen. There are others who are average, hard working men, responsible fathers and writers. That is what these men and many more are saying, and it is these men and many more that are marching on Washington.

Those that aren’t marching are making their own statements in their own cities. My father, West Des Moines councilman Robert Parks, is not at work today. See if you can see me in class today. See if you read one word urging anyone to consider the purchase of someone else’s album. I’m taking care of my own business today. After all, it would be very strange if a descendent of Nat Turner just sat and let a day like this go by.

“Music and Politics” by Michael Franti

If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics/ I would tell you that sometimes it’s easier to desire and pursue the attention and admiration of 100 strangers than it is to accept the love and loyalty of those closest to me.

And I would tell you that sometimes I prefer to look at myself through someone else’s eyes. Eyes that aren’t clouded with the tears of knowing what an asshole I can be, as yours are.

If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics I might be able to listen in silence to your concerns rather than hearing everything as an accusation or an indictment against me.

I would tell you that sometimes I use sex to avoid communication it’s the best escape when we’re down on our luck but I can express more emotions than laughter, anger and “let’s f—k.”

If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics I would tell you that I pooped in my own dog dish and sometimes I would rather face not eating than face licking it clean and admitting that I’m selfish and tell you that I’m suffering from the worst type of loneliness. The loneliness of being misunderstood, or more poignantly the loneliness of being afraid to allow myself to be understood.

If ever I would stop thinking about music and politics I would tell you that the personal revolution is far more difficult and is the first step in any revolution.

I would tell you that music is the expression of emotion. And that politics is the decoy of perception.

To quote another Disposable Heroes of Hiphoprisy song, “Famous and Dandy (Like Amos ‘N’ Andy)”:

“On screen or off, we can be rented to perform any feat

And we reflect the images presented by the media’s elite

Positive or negative attention is viewed as success

USDA African American beef is seen as progress. . .

. . .We act out all the stereotypes try to use them as decoy

And we become shining examples of the system we set out to destroy.”

Today, I intentionally stand as a statistic.

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Gregory Parks is a senior in zoology from West Des Moines.