First day on the job. Via Holborn.

Consider this an open thread, in which to share links and bicker.

“It is both possible and impossible to appreciate rap music as a white fan,” [Associate Professor of Philosophy at Florida Southern College,] H.A. Nethery said.

Okay then.

The professor added that rap is a “gift” to white people which “exposes the opaque white-racist self through the inducement of double consciousness within [the] listener.”

Good to know. You see,

Rap music is an expression of lived experiences of being the target of a world structurally dominated by white supremacy.

Which is apparently a thing; though, as so often, it seems we must take that on trust. And so, in order to properly appreciate rap music and its variations, rather than merely appropriating them, the Pale Oppressor must first indulge in “direct-self-reflection on [their] own complicity within the systems of white supremacy.” Casual and spontaneous listening is, I’m assuming, out of the question. First you must atone.

Having cultivated the appropriate level of neurosis and pretentious agonising, readers are invited to contemplate the uplifting ditties of Mr Stormzy, a rapper beloved by Guardian columnists, and who wishes us to know about his nocturnal adventures as an oppressed person – albeit a very wealthy one – specifically, his being able to “take your chick,” and more specifically, “getting freaky in the sheets,” and even more specifically, “finishing with a facial.”

Readers will doubtless recall that Mr Stormzy and his works have been deemed a fitting replacement for Mozart in school music lessons.

Old, yes, but still good. || Intrigue. || The miracle of good lighting. || Greetings, human. || How many holes does a given object have? || Hazards of the highway. || Crab and coral. || Meanwhile, in Switzerland. || Everyday songs for the lady in your life. (h/t, Neocon Servative) || Athlete of note. || Stuntmen watching stuntmen doing stunts. (h/t, Elephants Gerald) || Today’s word is inadvisable. || Moment of doubt. || Long way down. || Employed as an educator, you know. || Airbag for the elderly. || A brief history of the drum machine. (h/t, Things) || “The definitive guide to the Doctor Who theme.” || Evergreen. || We live in strange times. || Portland’s finest. || And finally, they mostly come at night, mostly.

Erika Sanzi reports on an educational breakthrough: 

Richard Carranza, Chancellor of schools in New York City, has done it again… There will be no numeric grades allowed for high schoolers, and no teachers, in any grades, are allowed to give a failing grade. The lowest “grade” allowed for elementary schoolers will be “needs improvement.” For middle schoolers, failing grades will be designated as “course in progress.” And for high schoolers, an F will become an “Incomplete,” whether the student plans on turning in any work or can show that any learning of the subject has actually occurred.

While grades and attendance are to be deemed bothersome details unworthy of attention, “factors such as equity” will, we’re assured, be given more prominence. Readers will note that the retreat from clear metrics into euphemism and pernicious fuzzwords – chief among which, “equity” – not only makes it difficult to determine pupils’ academic progress and actual competence, but also has a secondary effect of making it more difficult to identify the shortcomings of left-leaning educators and administrators. A coincidence, I’m sure.

Via here, via here. 

Previously in the world of “equity” – in San Diego, in San Francisco, and in Ohio.  

And somewhat related, this: 

And then there’s “equity” – another word favoured by both educators and campus activists – and which is defined, if at all, only in the woolliest and most evasive of terms. And which, when used by those same educators and activists, seems to mean something like “equality of outcome regardless of inputs.” Inputs including diligence and punctuality.

If that sounds a tad perverse and an unlikely path to human flourishing, our betters are only too happy to correct your unsophisticated notions.

I keep seeing this meme going around that’s like, “I’ll still be your friend if you voted for Trump, I’ll still be your friend if you voted for Biden…” and it’s making me ragey. 

So writes Sa’iyda Shabazz in the pages of Scary Mommy, where progressive parents display their piety to each other, and where rage and tears, even feigned or delusional rage and tears, are a currency of sorts, markers of woke status. Part of the game.

If you still support [Trump] after the last four years of his bullshit, then guess what? I don’t want to be your friend. Because if you support that monster, you can’t possibly also care about me.

A monster. Specifically, a “racist, misogynist, xenophobic monster.” I suppose we were destined to start in high gear, something approaching opera. It does seem to be the custom among Scary Mommy contributors. Having dutifully denounced Mr Trump as the Demon King, the cause of all human sorrow, Ms Shabazz then goes on to reveal, albeit inadvertently, the extent to which the wider world should in fact care about her, being as she is so lovely and not at all demented.

I know that I have friends who voted for Trump in 2016. And I know I probably have friends who did this year, too. One of them is one of my oldest and dearest friends. To say that I was horrified is an understatement. 

In terms of progressive outpourings, understatement is a rare treat. Let’s take a moment to savour it.

The friend that I knew for sure voted for him? We didn’t talk for three years. I couldn’t reconcile the person I knew with the person who’d do something so awful… As a Black woman who is queer and poor, I know this administration wants to make me a second-class citizen. I cannot associate with someone who even hints at feeling the same.

I think I see the problem. The questionable premise.

My college degree isn’t going to stop [the police] from shooting me dead in the street if they feel inclined.

Of which, it turns out, there may be more than one.