Small Steps Forward

I remember …

I had a conversation recently with someone. We were discussing how we consciously chose “other blackness.” I don’t know what to call it. Other blackness seems stupid, but maybe you’ve got a better term for it.

Black is undefined

I remember being unconscious of color growing up. This was despite having parents who had been Black Panthers (I didn’t learn of this until much later), despite reading biographical comic books of famous black people in history (such as Benjamin Banneker, George Washington Carver, Sojourner Truth, Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglas, among others). I knew we were black, but I didn’t have a frame of reference for what that was. I knew black people had been slaves once, but they weren’t slaves when I was growing up. Being black was as significant for me as having brown eyes and two feet. I had no context for being “black.” Until I got to Detroit.

Black is what?

I visited some of the extended family in Detroit at a young age. For those people (and yes, I mean those people), being black was a specific way of life. Being black meant putting important things first. Like dancing and singing. (No, I’m not making this up.) Not dancing or singing, mind you, with the idea that you were practicing for a career or a goal of some sort. No, the philosophy seemed to be, that if you couldn’t dance or sing, you weren’t black. Don’t even suggest that dancing and singing as a way of life was something that might not be a priority for you. (No, I’m not making this up.)

I couldn’t believe these were relatives. I remember experiencing a lot of confusion, growing up, watching the behavior of adults, who seemed to be fairly senseless far too often. And my interactions with these relatives definitely contributed to about 80% of my confusion.

Wait. It gets dumber.

Being black also seemed to mean that education was not only not a priority, it was something almost useless. That was something I found simply incredulous. And the more questions I asked, trying to make sense of this new information, the less sense the answers made, and the more angry and resentful the person answering became. And it wasn’t just that school was now a waste of time, in this new world according to Detroit, and that singing and dancing were vital, but there was an entire code of conduct which was now the law of the land. Like dressing stylishly on a welfare budget and mispronouncing words. (No, I’m not making this up.)

I vaguely recall some talk of a “revolution.” Except they couldn’t explain how the revolution was going to happen. And they seemed to really resent me asking about their plans. But I couldn’t help myself. How were they going to revolt if they couldn’t spell? How were they going to run the country after if they couldn’t add, subtract, multiply and divide? And no one could explain that. And I didn’t quite know what a revolution was, but I had watched enough TV and read about Nat Turner to know that a revolution at least required a plan and guns. What were the plans and where were the guns? And no one could explain that. And worse, I think I was the first one to even ask these questions. And I was 9. And, for me, these were “grown people.” (Actually, they were teenagers and young adults.)

No. Thank you, but hell No.

I think it took about two days to decide I wasn’t going to be “black.” Now, I knew I was black. And I also knew enough black people to know that these clowns (the relatives) were simply ridiculous. But there was a whole neighborhood of young and old (Kool-Aid guzzling, Now-and-Later-eating) people living this philosophy. I knew enough about black history to comprehend how they could be angry at “the man.” What I couldn’t wrap my head around was how their way of life was going to help them. And they couldn’t explain how their way of life was going to help them. And they hadn’t seem to have given their philosophy much thought before dedicating their lives to it.

I’ve been an unapologetic, unrepetant Oreo ever since.