An Open Letter to My Ancestors

Dear Ancestors,

To those on whose shoulders I stand, I apologize. From the deepest part of me, I am sorry for the mess that we are in in this country. You knocked down the door of segregation and pushed us inside, but we didn’t know what to do once we got here. We thought our work was done. We gulped the Kool-Aid and didn’t know that it was spiked. Now we’re confused and disillusioned. But there is still hope for us. You didn’t give up; we can’t either.  

We messed up. We think that because we have advanced degrees, live in integrated neighborhoods, drive luxury cars, and send our kids to private schools that we have arrived. We think that because we can afford to have someone clean our homes have a diverse group of friends and maybe even have White friends and family members that we can eat at the big table. We thought we were in the House, but now know that we are still in the kitchen.

If we had not forgotten our history, we would not be surprised by recent events. We first came here as indentured servants, but when it was discovered that the color of our skin made us easily identifiable, we became an even cheaper source of labor--free. Most of us descend from Africans who came here as cargo; property, and we’ve never been able to completely wash away the smell from that trip. Hard Truth: We are the shit on the bottom of America's shoe. And no matter what we do, the stench of who we are stays with us.

Many of the founding fathers were slave holders: Thomas Jefferson, John Hancock, Benjamin Franklin, and George Washington among others. When Jefferson penned the words “all men are created equal” in the eyes of the Constitution, he was not speaking of African Americans. We were designated as 3/5 of a person for the purposes of property value. We were no different from the farm animals. Not much has changed. 

We should have known better, and maybe we would have done better. Doing the work that needed to be done instead of sitting comfortably on the legacy you left us. We nodded off into the good life thinking that we had accomplished something only to learn that we haven't. We are despised in the country of our birth. We are made to feel like outsiders and agitators dare we speak out against the injustice that is as American as apple pie and Chevrolet. 

The road to freedom is paved with your blood and your broken bodies. But your spirit lives on in us. How could we forget that? We are here because you chose to survive. We are here because you didn’t fall for the okey-doke. For every major victory, there has been backlash. From the Emancipation Proclamation to the election of Barack Obama, we have faced strong opposition to change. We have been, beaten, lynched, raped, bombed and the victims of other unspeakable acts of violence against us, and yet we are still looked at as savages of some sort. That’s why we kill each other, right?

 When Barack Obama was elected President of these “United” States and everyone was wondering if he was ready to be president, I was wondering if we were ready for him. We were not. Never in the history of this country has a President been so disrespected. I’m still trying to recover from the fact that three major networks decided not to air the President’s speech. Who does that?

Assimilated to the point of indoctrination, some of us are inebriated on the idea of inferiority. We actually believe that in America there is difference between Black people and Niggers, not understanding that we are ALL Niggers in the minds of many. From Phyllis Wheatley to Charles Barkley, some of us have drunk too much Kool-Aid and think that our arrival in this country is the best thing that happened to us since home-made buttered biscuits. I have to give credit where credit is due: the brain washing was thorough and complete. Once we learned to hate ourselves there wasn’t as much work to do to keep us in line.

The reality of our situation is that we have only been desegregated. We have never been fully integrated into American society. The society in which we were born into and still live in is racist. And that’s the norm. We can’t forget that. It is what it is. We can’t change the origin. We have to know that and keep moving.

I had to sit back and marinate on what’s happening because at first I was upset. I kept wondering where I was. I was thinking: This is America? Then is I realized, This IS America. I had to remember what so many of you have been telling us for years: without struggle there is no progress. So, I’m glad to see so much social unrest. I’m glad to see us struggle. For I know that progress will follow.

I’m sorry that we lost our way. I’m sorry that we forgot our place. But I know that we’ve always made a way out of no way. You showed us that. We were not expected to survive, much less thrive. But we have always been able to use that which was turned against us in our favor. So, while we might be the shit on the shoe, we also know that it’s our manure that made it happen. America is America because of the shit on her shoe. So, that makes us The Shit, right?

Bathing in the Beauty of Blackness

Last weekend, I checked out. I left the building because I needed to insulate myself from the ugliness of racism. So, I wrapped myself in the beauty of Blackness instead. The constant barrage of negative press and off-handed, mean-spirited and misdirected comments were wearing me down. I could not take one more “news” story or opinion from the keyboard psychologists and the armchair forensic experts on anything and everything from Cosby to Ferguson. I simply did not want to deal with anymore widely polarizing views on these and other issues plaguing Black America. 

This was before the grand jury decision in Ferguson, so as the country waited to hear what we already knew, I left the darkness of a country still deeply divided by race to seek solace in the love I have for my own people. I yearned to see people like me living life. Being normal.  Not being characterized by race. Not being demonized or victimized. I needed an alternative view of what makes me, Me. So, I took a respite from media and conversations around the proverbial water cooler and chose to focus on the strength and the beauty of Black culture. First stop: film.

On Saturday morning, I rose early and went to see Beyond the Lights. I love the work of Gina Prince-Blythewood, and I had been following the back story for Beyond the Lights, so I was ecstatic when it was finally released. And even though I had seen it opening weekend, it was worth a second look. On the surface, it was a simple universal love story, and who’s not a sucker for a good lover story? But below the surface it is a story of why it's important to live life authentically.  And yes, love is universal, but it's as refreshing as the first spring rain to see faces on the big screen that mirror me. And so I cocooned myself in Noni and Kaz's story and rooted for the happily-ever-after. Second stop: dance.

Saturday night I went to see the Dance Theater of Harlem (DTH) at the historic Auditorium Theater.  It was their first time in Chicago in 10 years. When DTH stopped touring years ago, I was saddened by the news. But when I found out they were coming to Chicago, I bought tickets and the timing couldn’t have been better.  As I sat in the audience watching those beautiful Black bodies in motion, I was in heaven. It's no secret that classical ballet is comprised of those mostly of a lighter hue, so there are very few dark spots in that sea of whiteness. But DTH founded by Arthur Mitchell the first African-American Principal dancer with New York City Ballet and Karel Shook In 1969 has been a training ground for African-American ballet dancers. The company is definitely diverse now, but there was enough color filling the stage to satiate my desire for cultural recognition and reconnection.  The first two dances were typical classical ballet, but the last dance was ballet to the hits of Aretha Franklin and James Brown, and it brought the racially-mixed audience to its feet. Next stop: church.

Still not ready to return to the ugliness of a racist reality, on Sunday I settled in for some good ole’ down-home religion. I am not an avid Church goer, but I love the faith of Black people. Since coming to this country we have learned to fill our spiritual well when it runs dry. Gospel music is a balsam for my wounded psyche. And on Sunday evening, I tuned into the Trinity United Church of Christ broadcast streaming live on the internet. The choir was dressed in African attire and Pastor Moss had on a jacket made from African fabric. His message was on immigration, and Pastor Moss spoke of the parallels between the African-American experience and that of current immigrants. He cautioned us not to get caught up in the rhetoric around the issue of immigration and forget where we came from. I watched the church service and was in fellowship. Last stop: Literature

Then I curled up in the bed with my favorite African-American historical romance writer Beverly Jenkins who weaves little known history into the stories of Black people.  I am reading the third one in the Destiny series. This one is about Pilar, a Black pirate who steals the ship of Noah, one the Yates men in the series.  My choice to bask in the beauty of Blackness would cause some to label me a racist, but as a woman of color with little power, I am far from being a racist though I can be prejudiced and bigoted. But I'll save that for another conversation.

Weighted down by racism and oppression, I needed to take the time to take that weight off me. Bathing in the beauty of Blackness reminded me on whose shoulders I stand. It reinforced for me that I come from a people who are tenacious, who are resilient, who get knocked down again and again but like the Phoenix will rise. I bathed in the beauty of Blackness, and my soul is soothed.

Who Are You Calling A Female? By Stephanie J. Gates

I was sitting at the table watching the manicurist meticulously paint my nails, when he said something about “females.” I sucked in my breath as the words from his tongue screeched against the chalkboard of my mind.  By the time, he uttered it the third time, my ears were on fire so I said, “I don’t like being called a female.” He looked at me, paused hunched up his shoulders and resumed polishing my nails. It was quiet for a few minutes as he continued to work, and then he asked, “What’s wrong with female?”

So, I threw a question right back at him. I said, “If I am simply a female, then what separates me from a dog, a cat or cow?” He admitted that he had never really thought about it that way. And I’m sure he didn’t because it’s so common now. I hear a lot of young people referring to females as females, but I don’t here guys being called males. Where I’m from—depending on what hood I’m in at the time—guys are well, guys, dudes, bros and niggas. Never males. They are the male gender of people. So, how did we get to become females?

How did we get stripped of our humanity? According to mariamwebster.com, female means a (1):  of, relating to, or being the sex that bears young or produces eggs (2) A female is a thing; it’s an object. I don’t want to be objectified by the v-shaped space below my navel. I don’t want to be reduced to my genitals. I am more than the body parts that distinguish me from a boy or man.

The term dehumanizes girls and women. It treats as objects or toys to be played with, and we know what happens when something new becomes old. It’s discarded. Words are things. Words have power. And if we allow ourselves to be simply female, we lessen ourselves in the eyes of those who label us as such. So, while some may think it’s silly of me not to think of girls and women as females, when technically we are, I know we are females, but we are so much more than the abstract idea of simply being opposite a male or the other gender. Girls and women have feelings. We have goals. We have ambition. Our lives have purpose. Calling us female negates that.

Female is what I check on forms to distinguish me from a male. So I’m female for statistical and identification purposes only! When I was born, the doctor said, “It’s a girl!  Time and experience groomed me into a young woman, and the tutelage of magnificent mentors helped me blossom me into a lady. So, why would I settle for the façade of half-dressed femininity when I can wear the full worldliness of a woman and/or the loveliness of a lady so much better?

Where I’m From

I recently ran across the poem, Where I'm From by Georgia Ella Lyon, and I used it as inspiration to create my own story of  Where I'm From. It reminds of how each of us has a narrative to tell, and that it is our responsibility to share our stories so that we learn from each other and grow into the people we were meant to me. This is Where I'm from

I am from Home Juice delivered to my door,

Ethnic baked goods from a bus trip across town

Meals made from scratch; nothing out of a box at my house

I am from sit-down Sunday and holiday dinners

Pepper steak and rice in Chinatown

My mother, my sister, my niece and me

I am from karate lessons in the basement,

Home-made heated tents when the furnace went out,

Swing sets on a summer day

Dance parties in the front room

I am from being chased through the house – laughing and squealing,

Hide-and-go seek, Simon Says;

I am from a  time that allowed me to enjoy being a child

I am from “See you later alligator, after while crocodile;” “Watch out there now;”

And “If it had’ve been a snake it would have bit you” –

When I couldn’t find something in front of my face

I am from singing in music workshop,

The red swivel seats of an integrated Woolworths

And neighbors who know my name

I am from the bottom of the slave ship

Washed up on the shore of North America

Two cultures merged to make me

I am from Africa by way of Nigeria and Sierra Leona

From the intersection of Georgia and Mississippi

From the west and the south side of Chicago

I am from the Ancestors

On whose shoulders I stand

I am from the breath of God

I am from this place we call

Life

Where are you from? I would love to hear your story.

Medaling While Black

I was not an athlete growing up. The only running I did was away from gym class until my sophomore year of high school when I escaped to modern dance.

By the time I reached adulthood, I shed some of my shyness about being a klutz and started working out regularly. But intellectual ability still outranked athletic agility in my book. When I turned 40 though I had a life-changing experience when I joined a women of color triathlon team. Learning to balance training with the rest of my life was challenging even though I wasn’t trying to win; I was simply trying to finish. So, it is only in my mind’s eye that I can even imagine what it must be like to train for the Olympics-- the grueling workouts, extreme sacrifice and the dogged determined that is required to compete with the best.  

Watching the athletes from the comfort of my home compete to medal, I have felt my breath freeze in my chest. I have felt the sting of their defeats as well as the glory of victory of  these amazing athletes! But even in watching the Olympics I am reminded of the “otherness” of Black athletes. It started with the comments about Gabrielle Douglass’ hair. The medal wasn’t around her neck long enough before the comments started rolling in on social media about her hair. 

Many of the comments were those of Black women who felt like Gabby was not representing African-American well because her hair was not quite up to par. Initially, I thought the comments were nitpicking, but after some reflecting, I sadly understood what was going on even though I felt the criticism was unwarranted. Black people still carry the burden of the race—real or imagined--on our backs so it’s important for us to cultivate the appearance of first class citizens even when we’re viewed as second class citizens in the home of our birth. Some of us are still trying to prove our worth to White America.

Then Bob Costas backhand compliment added more insult to injury regarding Gabby’s win. "You know, it's a happy measure of how far we've come that it doesn't seem all that remarkable, but still it's noteworthy. . . "The barriers have long since been down, but sometimes there can be an imaginary barrier, based on how one might see oneself." I couldn’t believe that he formed his lips to say that “the barriers have long since been down.” Do we live in the same country? The fact that in 2012 we’re still recognizing “firsts” shows that even though things have improved, we still have to a long way to go.

Lastly, is the controversy surrounding Serena Williams’ victory after winning the gold. Fox Sports' Reid Forgrave, said, “And there was Serena — the tennis legend. . .the best player of her generation, the American girl being crowned at the All-England Club as the queen of tennis — Crip-Walking all over the most lily-white place in the world. She didn’t do it on purpose. It was a moment of unbridled joy. . . You couldn’t help but shake your head. It was as if Serena just couldn’t seem to avoid dipping into waters of controversy even as she’d ascended to the top of her sport.” I shake my head as I follow these stories. I feel for the Black athletes competing under the glare of mainstream America. 

In this culture of false bravado, everyone is living out loud, and people feel that they can say what ever they 

 want. And they can. But when someone can rise to the top of their sport and bring home the gold and the only thing some people can say is something negative about something so meaningless as how they wear their hair or choose to celebrate their accomplishment, I think back to the word of my elder when I was a child: "If you ain't got nothin' good to say, don't say nothin' at all."