When Black is a Bad Thing

“Act your age, not your color.”
Old saying in the African-American community.

I clearly remember hearing older Black people warning those of thought to be acting out to “act our age and not our color.” And though I found it odd even as a child, I never questioned the adults who uttered these words that have stuck in my psyche all these years. It has taken time to grapple with and come to some understanding of the meaning of a statement that was meant as an admonishment against inappropriate behavior, but was actually a thinly disguised veil for yet another layer of self-loathing that so many of us African Americans find ourselves so tightly wrapped in it that we don’t even realize we’re choking on it.

This article hit the proverbial nail on the head about being “too black” whatever that is, which is opposite of not being “black enough.” In my forty something years of blackness, I have yet to learn what is the exact degree of blackness needed to simply just be who we are with no apologizes to the rest of the world.

We have gone from colored to Negro to Black to Afro American to African American, from the ghetto as a place to a state of mind. But through it all, the painful truth is we have always been the niggers of American society I don’t care how much we try to run away from it. We’ve tried burying it, and calling it the N word. But what America believes about us in this pretend age of post racialism, we also own. Ouch! That hurts. But we live with it.

I know black people who will tell you point blank how much they hate niggers following the whole Chris Rock, there’s-a-difference-between-Blacks and niggers routine. And although I wanted to slide under the table when my friend explained his I-hate-niggers philosophy to our white co-workers, I felt the same feelings of animosity wash over me when I woke up in the middle of the night to hear my car alarm going off and I saw the shattered glass of the passenger side of my car window. In that moment I hated Them who had violated Me.

The duality that W.E.B. DuBois spoke of so many years ago is true today. I have fought valiantly with the duality of my existence, and I am not always clear on who the victor is as I look for oneness in the many reflections of what it means to be Black in America. I have been the woman in this article—acting my age and not my color--because to act Black was to discredit the race. Even though, at the time, I understood it to be “being raised right.”

I grew up on the idea of speaking “proper” English and I had a “snobbish” attitude about it looking down my nose at those who did not speak the King’s English. In my early years as a teacher, I noticed that my students consistently made the same grammatical errors, and my perplexity sent me on a journey to find out why. What I learned about African-American English Vernacular (AAEV), was life changing. Contrary to rumors about Ebonics, we are a bi-lingual people. And so I accept that I have a mother tongue as well as a second learned language. And while I am fine with it, it doesn’t sit well with some of my family, friends or colleagues. It’s a constant battle to reconcile two tongues and be ok with it in front of non-black people.

Once I wanted to strangle a friend of mine in heated debated about the validity of AAEV. Although he acknowledged that it existed, and that he and his wife spoke it, it was adamant about his children not speaking it which was stupid because they live in to house with him and so they will absorb it as he did. I thought that his public denouncement of AAEV gave others permission to continue to devalue our culture.

Another time an upper middle class friend of mine, the daughter of a doctor back in the day when the title meant something, was irritated by my use of the vernacular “ax” in the front of a White woman. First of all, my sister drilled “ask” into my head as a child and I can remember a White woman remarking that I was the only Black person she ever heard actually say ask with a “k” sound and not an “x” sound. So, I was usually conscious of articulating the “k” sound, But I guess on that day during our three person wring group—the two of us and the instructor--I took off my educated cap and slipped into the comfort of the vernacular and committed the unthinkable.

It’s been years since the incident, but I can still feel the sting of her comment not because I said in front of a White woman but because I embarrassed a Black woman in front of a White woman.

I am a teacher. I am a writer. I love words. I love language and I have grown to appreciate all of its varieties and I try to teach it that way. Language is constantly changing and evolving just as we are as people.

And language is only one obstacle to learning to love and not loath who we are as African-American people. Everything we do is under the microscope. As a child, I loved the TV show The Monkeys, and my nieces and I often monkey walked down the street. One year we went on a cruise, and it was Kerokee night. I wanted to do the Monkeys, but my niece refused. She said she would not give white people permission to call us apes when that’s what they thought of us anyway. I know people who won’t eat watermelon or bananas in the presence of non-white people. The list goes on as to what we won’t do to identify with being “too black” which translates into “ghetto” which translates into “niggerish”—non of which any self-respecting African American would want to be associated with.

It has taken time to be comfortable in my skin—all aspects of it. I’ve reached a place where I don’t care what others think because if a person is prejudiced or bigoted in any way, my actions will not change the feelings in their heart. So, when a foot-stomping, head bobbing, finger-snapping song comes on while I’m driving, I like to turn the radio up and sing and dance along. And for those who find my behavior deplorable because it feeds the beast—the stereotype of the singin’/dancin’ happy, but clueless Negro, I make no apologies for “neither acting my age nor my color.” I’m not tiptoeing around stereotypes; I’m living my life out loud.

You Can't Pretty Ugly

You can't pretty ugly. That's the conclusion I've come to after tuning into non-reality, reality TV. I kept hearing about these shows and their cast of characters that I was clueless about, so I decided to watch a few episodes, and was quickly reminded of the lyrics of a Jill Scott song that says, “Everything ain’t for everybody.”

People will liken my distaste for reality TV to that of being bougie or of liking things that are intellectually stimulating or thought-provoking. And yes, I do like watching, reading, listening to or talking about things that make me think. But I also like mindless, guilty pleasure stuff as well. One of my favorite pastimes is watching stupid comedies, and I love Beverly Jenkins African-American historical romance novels.

I know that not all idiots watch Maury and the plethora of judge shows. Humans beings are complicated creatures and most of us contradict ourselves in one way or another. Our complexity makes life so much more interesting. I get it; I understand why so many of us are glued to the TV and sucked into the lives of the “stars” of reality TV. It does make for compelling viewing as we become voyeurs in the real-life soap opera of the somewhat rich and famous. We fantasize about what it would be like to have money and status—to chase the promised, but elusive American Dream. We want to see what we think we might be missing.

So for a few weeks I tuned in too, but it got old for me fast because what I saw was pretty sad. The women are in their designer finest. They strut around in their Christian Louboutin shoes, working the wonders of the best weave that money can buy. They have perfectly manicured nails, toothpaste lover’s dream teeth courtesy of veneers and enough plastic parts to fill a landfill or two. On the outside, the women are beautiful, but it doesn’t cover up the ugly that reeks out week after week. I know it’s all about editing and ratings so much of what is passed off as real isn’t. But there’s enough backstabbing, gossiping and hater-aid being passed around to send everybody into rehab. The viewers take solace in the fact that our lives aren’t that bad. And we understand that the money-magic wand cannot fix all that ails us. But it doesn’t stop us from wondering what if we had that money what would we do?

Years ago, I promised myself that I would remove toxic people from my life, and I had until I started watching some of these shows. Feeling tired after an episode, I realized that watching these women is poisonous to my spirit. I had to hit the channel changer on my remote. I like Unsung and Life After because they’re about life’s trials, tribulations, tragedies, and triumphs. A bunch of whining women with too much time on their hands doesn’t give me the slightest bit of pleasure. Life happens to all of us--rich, poor, well-known and unknown. And I like tuning into the lives of people who wrestle with adversity and win.

Nothing Cute About It

The firestorm surrounding the suspension of a 9 year-old boy from a North Carolina school has resulted in the suspension being rescinded and the resignation of the school principal. Emanyea Lockett was originally suspended for sexual harassment for calling his teacher “cute.” According to various news sources, the child did not say it in the presence of the teacher, but was talking to a friend when his comment was overheard by a substitute teacher who then reported it to administration.

I am disturbed by this story on many levels because I am left with many unanswered questions. For starters, I can’t believe that the principal, a 44-year veteran educator would have to end his career over something so seemingly insignificant. I can’t help but think that something’s amiss and we the unknowing public will never know the full details.

What especially concerns me about this situation besides the unknown is that it brings to mind the racist and sexist undertones that still permeate our society. Though we live in the 21st century, we are still operating from a 19th century perspective on race and gender because we still view the black male as a sexual predator and the white woman as a damsel in distress waiting to be rescued. Although I don’t know the race the teacher involved, I do know that the black male is feared by some of those charged with teaching him because they take their cues from society at large.

Many of our teachers in urban schools are white females, which makes wonder how this social-sexual dynamic plays out in the classroom. I have seen glimpses of it, and it ain’t nothing nice to see. There are tons of literature on the behavioral and academic performances of black males. Are the problems facing the African-American male student a self-fulfilling prophecy brought on as a matter of social conditioning?

Society pounds into my head to fear and/or loathe black males. And if I, an African-American woman who lives and works in Urban America can sometimes fall prey to such stereotypical thinking, what about those who are two or three times removed from the population they teach. As I grapple with the dynamics of this story, I reflect on my own teaching experience. When I was a mentor teacher, I had experiences with teachers who were afraid of their students and it showed, and the students took advantage of the situation. It was a case of what came first, the chicken or the egg?

Every week when I walked into this young white female teacher's classroom, I had to talk her down off the ledge. She had previously taught Mexican students, so she didn't understand why she couldn't relate to her African-American students. One week she was particularly disturbed because a black male student had molded a piece of clay into a phallic shape and acted as though he were masturbating in her class. She reported the incident, and disciplinary action was taken against the student, but it was not to her satisfaction. The child was not suspended, and he probably should have been. This incident along with other issues she had caused her to resign at the end of the year.

Another young white woman wore her hair up all the time, and one day she wore it down, and it fell past her shoulders. The boys in her class were in awe. We live in a culture that worships long hair, and blond hair is even better, so it was no surprise that she got a reaction from her male students, but the incident “creeped” her out, and she decided not to wear her hair down. In both instances, I didn’t know what to say, where to begin to try and create a level of empathy and understanding.

As an educator, I have spent most of my time in middle school or junior high, and I have been subjected to the admiration of some of my students over the years, but none of which I would classify as sexual harassment though I am fully aware that students can and will make inappropriate comments, and should be disciplined accordingly. But my problem is two-fold: we don't discipline fairly as evidenced by the high percentage of African-American males suspended across the nation, and we allow our children to live in a culture that reeks of sexuality, and blame them when they lack the filters needed to discern what is and isn't appropriate.

I don't know all the details in this case. what I do know is that it's not a case of black and white, but various shades of grey. Until we address the dynamics of what's really going on in our schools, things will never change. We'll keep looking for scapegoats to blame instead of looking into the heart of the issue. Black boys are neither angels nor devils, and neither are those of us who educate them. In the end, we're all human. And that's what we all need to understand.

See You in December

I've decided to take a short break from blogging as I am finding it too difficult to work, blog and work on a novel.

November 1st marked the first day of National Novel Writing Month and I decided to enter the contest. The goal is to finish a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.

It's challenging, but I'm plugging away at it. So, see you in December.

Why Color Still Matters

If you’re white, you’re alright
If you’re yellow, that’s mellow
If you’re brown, stick around
If you’re black, get back
Old saying in the African-American community

For two days, I sat in auditoriums filled with a kaleidoscope of black people--a living document of our mixed heritage. The first night I was at DuSable Museum and the audience was made up mostly of adult women waiting to watch the Dark Girls documentary. Not widely advertised, the movie had been listed under the museum’s events and spread via social networking and word of mouth. Due to overwhelming demand for another showing, in less than 24 hours, one of the auditoriums at Ice Theaters was filled to capacity. The second night was still mostly women, but also sprinkled with men and children. Standing room only, a makeshift bench and folding chairs were set up to accommodate the overflow. And we all wanted the same thing: understanding and healing around an issue that has plagued us far too long.

A woman in the audience at Ice Theaters said when she’d heard about the film, she thought that the issue was archaic. She said she wondered why we’re still talking about it in 2011. I shook my head at the thought. This subject matter is not archaic, but real and relevant and we need to talk about it. The fact that it’s been taboo for so long is why it has become a more insidious issue. It’s like a poisonous vapor permeating our being. And it’s time to talk it out and toss it out of our psyche.

Every day, I see the harm our silence is costing us. When I first became a teacher in the 90s, there was a beautiful young dark skinned girl in my class who told me that her color was a curse, and that nobody could tell her otherwise because no one else was as dark as she. I had light complected boys who felt like they had to fight to prove their “blackness” much like our President has to do today. I had another girl who hated another student because of the texture of the girl’s hair. In a heated argument, she yelled at her, “So what you got Indian in your family!” A group of girls threatened to cut the face and hair of a light skinned classmate because of something she had no control over. The stories are endless. Our children have learned to hate themselves from us.

Much of what’s wrong with our youth is an innate sense of self-loathing from the internalization of eurocentrism. What we fail to accept about perceived ideas of standards, is that if we have a superior standard, then we must have an inferior standard. So, if Europe is the pinnacle of all that’s beautiful then the antithesis of that would be Africa in a world where only white and black exists. Colorism is a by-product of racism, but it lives and breathes because we have not made peace with our past.

One of the experts in the film said that we are the keepers of our soul, and it’s time for us to become better care takers. We owe it to ourselves and our children.

Buy. . .or Not?

To Buy or Not to Buy? That is the dilemma I am faced with as I learn that American Girls has released its second African-American doll.

Move over Addy! You've got company. Addy, the American Girls only African-American doll until the recent addition of Cecile, is a former slave who escapes slavery.

Cecile, on the other hand, is from a well-to-do New Orleans family. I'm sure that Cecile will be well received by some and rejected by others just as Addy's reception has been mixed. We don't want to see ourselves as descendants of slaves, but we want our stories told accurately. The real or perceived controversy surrounding the dolls is not my issue. If I decide to purchase either--or both--it will be because I want to add them to my collection. And therein lies the problem for me.

The American Girl dolls, African-American or not, are homely. While they're not quite ugly, they are not cute by any stretch of the imagination. So, do I buy them for their historical and nostalgic value, and not their aesthetic appearance? I don't know.

I love dolls. I always have, but homely doesn't hit home. The jury's still out. But I'm thinking about. In the mean times, Byron Lars has a beautiful new Barbie that I need to add to my collection.

Hold on Addy and Cecile. I just might get you yet.

Remembering 911

I remember it fell on a Tuesday-- a beautiful, breezy, end-of-summer day. The trees were mostly green, but patches of red, yellow and brown were making their presence known. I remember having a full schedule of activities planned before and after work. My first stop was a follow up appointment with the surgeon who had removed fatty tumor from the upper right part of my back. My appointment was early in the morning and if I managed to get in and out quickly, I wouldn’t be that late for work.
I was thinking about my visit with the handsome, arrogant doctor and wondering if I should flirt with him since I hadn’t see a wedding wing on his finger. Arrogant is not really my type, I thought as I shifted to my long list of things to do on the list of living. As I reached to turn off the radio, something caught my attention. I stopped to listen; a plane had crashed into one of the towers at the World Trade Center in New York. I listened for a few minutes, but I knew I had to go. The day’s happenings were unclear to me at the time so I hurried into the office, signed in and took my seat as an eerie feeling descended over me.
Everyone was glued to the television in the waiting room watching the attacks on the World Trade Center and The Pentagon. It was pin-drop silence as we tried to make sense of what didn’t make sense. Chaos was reigning in New York, but it was business as usual in Chicago in a weird sort of way. On some level, I believe we found solace, in the semblance of normalcy. Something horrific was taking place, but nobody knew what to do because there is no protocol when horror unfolds in your face.
When my name was called, I unglued myself from the T.V. and went in to the examining room. The normally over-confident, clean shaven doctor was visibly shaven. He was talking as if I wasn’t in the room—something about understanding what they did because of things that the United States had done. Then he started talking about his family in D.C. His mother and uncle lived there and one of them worked near the Pentagon. He said he’d been trying to reach someone all morning, but the phone lines were jammed. I sat quietly, not knowing what to say as I tried to steady the rhythm of my own heart.
After a few more minutes of talking and pacing, he snapped into doctor mode, examined my incision, and told me that all was well—with me. I thanked him and left, but my mind would go back to him in the days that followed. I sent him a card wishing him and his family well. He did not reply. When I returned to my car, I called my mother who lives in Chicago because I needed the assurance of hearing her voice on the other end of the phone.
I work for the Chicago Board of Education, and when I got to work, we watched and waited. We were in public building and, we didn’t know if the schools would remain open or close. Carmen, my friend and co-worker decided to reschedule the twins’ birthday outing. Like most everyone else, I went home to watch and wait in anticipation of what was to come. In the days that passed, life for us in Chicago returned to normal, but we are forever reminded of our vulnerability.
Sept 11, 2001 is branded in the minds of Americans—a day in which our lives changed forever in visible and non-visible ways. Safety became our first priority—something we can no longer take for granted.