And this is where it gets personal.
Black History Month or, more specifically, the way that most Americans approach it, regardless of race, has always felt like a bit of an enigma to me. It is shuffled about, in the manner of pop trivia, only to be called upon during occasional coffee shop discussions or momentarily spotlighted on well-intending blogs. We peddle it out in 28-day patches, neatly tucking it back into its casings as soon as March 1 arrives. We mention names and note accomplishments, smile for a few moments, and then go on our merry way.
And yet, when April comes, and then July, on to October and December, the truth still remains. Tomorrow, I still wake up, black in America.
There is a pride in this realization, instilled in me from the time I was a child. There is also a strong malcontent awareness taken from this realization, as I grow more as a man. I see what I am not intended to see. It makes me stronger, but it also makes me sad.
I am not what America intended....
This is the beginning line of a poem I started writing, and am still living out its stanzas. My people's history is so deep rooted in forced servitude and the raping of wills that there is a stigma we may never shake. Most people came to this country seeking a new beginning. My ancestors were yanked from where they slept and ushered into bondage. American slavery was an institution will ramifications that are so far reaching, its effects are still seen today.
I witness them when I walk into a room, and all white faces greet my own. There is a moment. Thickness in the air. Eyes reflecting hearts and minds, quickly searching for a side of the line to stand on. In some of them, I am threat long before I can present myself to be one. Which is sad, in 2011.
The effects are present in the mindsets of too many young black men, unwilling to give a damn, because they are so certain it will just be snatched from their grasp. There has become this trained acceptance of failure that is damaging our community. It is for these brothers that my heart weeps.
The effects are present in the makeup of the modern black woman, who is often the byproduct of what happens when, for centuries, governing bodies attempt to cripple the black man, while telling the black woman that she is better off without him. She is forced to become independent. She is forced to become self-serving. Unfortunately, she is also often forced to be skeptical of the black man, instead of embrace him. We, as black men, need to bridge this gap, before total disconnection is achieved.
It is interesting that in society, simply because I am black, I am categorized as bitter, angry, or complaining. That I am too busy seeking apology for something I don't deserve. That it seems like I will find myself forever holding a grudge.
Thoughts flood my mind in response to this.
And they dare ask what my problem is?
In a nation that still seeks ways to remove me from my blackness when it is convenient, yet remind me of it when it does not fit their plans, I find myself tired. Tired of having to explain why. To white people, to other black people, and even to myself. As if being black is something I need an excuse for.
To me, BHM would serve a much greater purpose if it allowed these commentaries to be opened permanently. A white friend made the point that history should just be history. I think that's a quaint idea. But until we as a society reach a point where black and white are equal labels, then this idea will never reach its fruition. I guess because of the things I've experienced, I doubt this day will truly ever come. While there are many of us, of all races, who can coexist and desire true unity, we are still in the minority, which is perhaps irony at its finest.
I am not what America intended....
But I am here. And my country is forced to take notice.
I hope that these three posts have helped a few gain a bit of understanding. They are just a few of the issues still prevalent in the African-American community. And I hope that BHM grows into an awareness of more than just a few inventors and contributors, but instead of the black experience in a nation that never intended for us to be a part of the conversation.
Much love to everyone.
Marcus Jamison, the Rare Poet
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