Jesse Jackson? That’s just my baby daddy

The reverend can be forgiven for his affair because the flesh is weak. But so is his game -- why did he get caught?

Topics: Sex, Love and Sex,

The Rev. Jesse Jackson on Thursday confirmed reports that he is the father of a 20-month-old child born out of wedlock. That’s right, the Rev. Jesse Jackson: activist, minister, pundit, baby daddy.

Jackson, who spent time counseling President Clinton after the Monica Lewinsky debacle, has a little girl by one of his Rainbow Coalition staffers. Right about now, Bill is calling Jesse with marital advice of his own: “Run, Jesse. Run!”

I’m not surprised Jackson had an affair. Martin Luther King Jr. was reputed to have been a philanderer of mythic proportions, and why is that surprising? I mean, on the small screen, they are both men, and men have dicks. And every man with a dick knows that dicks have a mind of their own. That dick is an evil muthafucka — he can always get you into some shit with no mind as to how you’ll get out of it. No matter how much trouble could be on the back end of a careless tryst, that dick is always in your pants, saying, “Lookit dat ass!”

Chris Rock said it best: Men are only as faithful as their options, and men like Jackson must have hella options. Jackson said it himself: “When the doors of opportunity swing open, we must make sure that we are not too drunk to walk through.” Uh-huh. Hell, rappers have groupies — I’m sure there are plenty of women who want a little civil rights dick broke off donkey style, with Jesse screamin’, “Less legislatin’ and mo’ ejaculatin’!” I got no problem with Jesse Jackson getting a little ass from a staff person. The flesh is weak, and the smell of pussy is strong like a muthafucka. Better men than Jackson have fallen victim to the allure of easy pussy. Who am I to judge?

My problem is that my man ain’t no player — his game ain’t tight. Not only is discretion the better part of valor, it’s the true player’s creed. Do your dirt, but freak the booty like Kwai Chang Kane and leave nary a trace, dun. No towel, no kiss, just cum and run, baby. Get quick on the draw or wrap Li’l Man, but don’t ride it raw and then let off shots — that’s just stupid. I can’t respect a careless, stupid man. I’ll forgive him, but I may never respect him again.

And I did respect him on some level, although I’m not sure why. Maybe because Mike Wallace told me to. I mean, I guess he’s a symbol of something, but who the fuck knows what anymore? He might as well be Aunt Jemima, for all his political relevance. I never seriously saw him as a leader; being the man next to The Man never gave me much confidence in his power.

What’s sad is that to so many people he represented an ideal, a dream referred. He was the reminder of a movement that helped America become the cracked melting pot it is today. And now those people are crushed. Jesse’s picture is being taken down in rec rooms all across black America. In my local barbershop they will no doubt rehang his picture on the Wall of Stains, right next to Leon Isaac-Kennedy, Jimmie Walker and Master P, and that’s probably good company for him — with all the other losers.

For me, he’s a civil rights rapper at best, spittin’ vicious licks and, apparently, slingin’ vicious dick. Ain’t no tellin’ how this baby-mama drama is gonna shake out. As if black leadership needed more discrediting. Here’s a leader who can’t lead and a player who can’t play: He gets no dapp from me, Jack.

But, benevolent people that we are, we will most certainly give him another shot at a leadership role. We forgave Marion “Pookie” Barry, and he was a dope fiend. Certainly Jackson is due a pardon for being slow on the draw. But Mrs. Jackson and his five children — that’s another matter. He better call his local request line, ask for Outkast and send the mother of all shout-outs to get on her good side. Maybe have them play the “I’m sorry, Ms. Jackson” part over and over. The whole thing is largely a private matter, but he better call Tyrone before Mama get her gun. Word.

But you know what? Even amid the humiliation and the fall from grace, he’ll be back, rejuvenated, with even better rhetorical rap: “Don’t playa-hate,” I can hear him sayin’, “legislate!”

Jimi Izrael is a journalist living in Cleveland Heights, Ohio.

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