The Plight of the Light-Skinned Black Man: President Obama’s Other Problem

A play. A book. A movie. And a host of disparaging comments against the POTUS has me pondering the plight of the light-skinned Black man in America. 

 As the next election nears, I am taken back to the days following the election of Barack Obama as the first African-American president of the United States when so many of us were caught up in the magic  of the moment—that Change had indeed come. But as much as things have changed, much has remained the same and America’s race problem is colored by its complex relationship with complexion. 

I believe that some of the criticism of Obama’s presidency is cloaked in colorism and sexism--something that we either are not aware of or simply not willing to talk about. But I think looking at the role of color of complexion, and how it relates to our definition of masculinity can explain some our discontent and/or ambivalence to the President. 

I’m amazed at how often we speak about race, but remain mute on issues of color even though there is a color hierarchy in place in America. We talk about racism, but we don’t talk much about its first cousin-colorism. In the book, The Color Complex—The Politics of Skin Color Among African Americans, the authors suggests that skin color bias is not a thing of the past. “Beneath a surface of Black solidarity lies a matrix of attitudes about skin color and features. . .”

Too often any examination of colorism is through the lens of gender and how it relates to women—especially dark-skinned women of color.  Rarely do we discuss the impact of color and those of lighter hues nor do we discuss how it affects men at all. But some recent cultural experiences brought the ideal of colorism and light-skinned men, particularly the President, to the forefront of my mind. 

Yellowman, a play that was the 2002 Pulitzer Prize finalist for drama, examines the color stratifications in the African-American community. It is the story of Eugene and Alma, childhood friends who fall in love but whose relationship is ultimately doomed because of the color caste system embedded in the African-American community. The title takes its cue from Eugene, born to a light-skinned mother and dark-skinned father, and hated by his father because his father thinks Eugene’s complexion gives him an unfair advantage. Color looms large in their relationship and takes a devastating toll on it.

When Obama was poised to be our next president, I remember hearing Radio Personality Tom Joyner joke that light-skinned brothers were back in again. And those of us that understood the inside joke laughed along. But we didn’t discuss his and other comments that can shed light on an issue that has long haunted us. Raised by his white grandparents in Hawaii, and living out the American dream by ascending to the highest office in this nation, President Obama has been naive about race and its implications in America, but has first-hand knowledge now.

I listened to the rhetoric about Obama being ready to be POTUS, and I questioned if we were really ready for him. He was the ideal African-American presidential candidate who had ascended the slippery slope of race and color by being light enough to appeal to white voters while also being black enough to appease black voters. While white America is more accepting of a less menacing looking (darker) Black man, black America needs some sure signs of melanin. Even though the president is bi-racial, his dark brown wife and his adorable daughters made us sigh with relief that he was a “real” black man.

I enjoy reading Black Historical Romance, and while reading Passion’s Furies, I was returned once again to the plight of the light-skinned Black man. In this story, Solomon Dikembe, a wealthy mulatto businessman is charged with insulating Jacinta McIver, a free woman of color, from harm. Jacinta is secretly working with Denmark Vessey’s slave rebellion. Solomon has the means to protect Jacinta and he supports the revolution, but his mixed-race heritage causes Jacinta to distrust him. Though the story is fiction, there are elements that are true even today. There is a level of dislike and distrust in the African-American community for those among us with less melanin in their skin. We both admire and envy them and it’s been that for hundreds years, and the irony of a light-skinned Black man in the Oval Office is not going to change that.

We thought we had the best of both worlds, only to find that old, die-hard feelings around race and color have reared their ugly heads—again! What begin as the perfect picture to the American public has turned against Obama. His none threatening presence the light coloring, intellect, and charisma have turned on him. He is a charlatan and a tool of good old boys network. Cornell West’s tirade surfaced feelings had been dormant. West couched his language in political rhetoric but it was ultimately a sophisticated name calling of Obama as a house Negro alluding to the tension and distrust that has exist among African Americans since miscegenation created the tragic mulatto and all of its deviations.

Those of mixed-race backgrounds or lighter coloring have had advantages since the days of slavery, but it has not come without a price. Many of our leaders and firsts have been fair in complexion carrying the burden of race and color. In The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Malcolm shared his conflicted feelings about his complexion—thinking it was a status symbol, but feeling his mother’s pain of being a child of rape and ultimately hating his White heritage, and his father, though dark skinned, was not immune to the effects of colorism. “Father was belligerent toward all the children except me. . .I actually believe that as anti white as my father was, he was subconsciously so afflicted with the white man's brainwashing of Negroes that he inclined to favor the light ones and I was his lightest child."

What role did color play in these relationships? Did Malcolm’s father marry his wife because of her nearness to White? Did Malcolm marry Betty in an effort to dilute his Whiteness? Was color a factor in the marriage of Barack and Michelle? To deny that color does not play a role in our interactions with another is to deny a part of our reality.

We have a racist and sexist perception of what a “real” Black man is, and a light-skinned Black man ain’t it. First of all, as a society we don’t even want to acknowledge Black men as men. We refer to them as boys and/or males. And then when we want a Black man to “man up”, we want him to be the stereotypical Big Scary Black (dark) Man—an image that is unfortunately worldwide. I was reminded of this when I watched the movie, The Intouchables, the story of a quadriplegic, wealthy Frenchman who hires an ex-con as his live-in caretaker. The care-taker character, Driss, is played by a strapping Black man who uses his size and color to intimidate. And as I sat there watching the movie, I wondered what the real caretaker looked like. And at the end of the movie, I was not surprised to see that he was neither Big nor Black, but was actually short, chubby and a person of color, but not identifiably Black. He didn’t fit the stereotype.

The irony of the light-skinned Black man is that he can never be light enough or Black enough to be considered a “real” man. In the case of our President, it is this “otherness” working against him. There was the obsession with his birth certificate, and then there were the finger-pointing incidents with Congressman Joe Wilson and Governor Jan Brewer who reacted to the president in a display of disrespect that would not have happened to a White man in America.

And let’s not forget, Bill Maher’s disappointment that the President is not more “gangster” in his blackness, and that if Obama were “fully black” and not just “half black”, he might be a better president. Comedian DL Hughley said that the President’s intellectual response to matters makes him “closer to being a White kid.” There doesn’t seem to be a middle ground for light-skinned Black men.We either accuse them of being part of the status quo or of  becoming revolutionaries and hooking up with dark sisters to compensate for their pale pigmentation. We don't seem to want to just let them be.

As a teacher, I have seen colorism played out in my classroom. I remember  two light-skinned boys' narratives that stay with me. One felt like he had to fight all the time to prove his worth because he wasn't "man enough" to the other boys. The other student was so moved by a conversation that we had on colorism that his mother called and thanked me. She said she didn't know what I had said to her son, but that whatever it was made a positive impression on him. My students learned that some of the issues they faced were not of their own doing, and our conversations around color gave them permission to be OK with who they were, and that's where we need to be in this country.

 President Obama faces issues of race and color because America has a color problem. And we are all affected by it. Either we are judging or being judged on the superficiality of skin color.

He Ain’t Heavy . . . or Is He?

 

This is one of my favorite paintings by renowned artist, Gilbert Young. Its simplicity of one hand reaching out to help another speaks volumes of the capacity of the human spirit. Though I love the idealism behind the sentiment of reaching down or reaching back to help another, I question the realism of such an act. It’s a wonderful idea, but is it realistic? I can’t speak for others, but I have sometimes wondered: When can I say that you’re too heavy? When can I let go of your hand or ask you to get down off my back? How long must I carry you because you’re my brother, sister, niece nephew, parent or child? If I am responsible, is it my duty to always be responsible for someone else? When does the other person that I’m carrying have to take responsibility for his or her own actions?

Many of us don’t want to believe that someone in need is a burden, but ugly reality is that the weight of another cannot only bend our back, it can break us. Carrying someone’s burden is a challenge. We want to help, but we have to balance help with hindering—our life and theirs. I used to have a hard time saying no to people. Sometimes I still do. I thought if I could, then I should. But my oldest sister shared with me a valuable lesson that stays with me. She said that people should accept no, as readily as they accept yes. Though it didn’t happen right away, slowly and gradually, I began to be ok with saying, “No.”

What I have learned about myself is that I am a vicarious learner, and I have observed and taken note that some people will suck the life out of you if you allow them to do so. I watched family and friend give and give until there was nothing left, and because they were always the ones giving, when they needed, they didn’t have anyone to turn to. 

A few years ago I attended a workshop with Lisa Nichols, author of No Matter What and she did an exercise with us about giving.  She placed a glass of water on the table. As she began pouring the water into the glass, she asked those of us in attendance that as he filled the glass, she wanted us to look at the glass symbolically as each of us, and she wanted to know at what point could she stop pour to indicate when we ready to give to others. Some said at the halfway point, some said when it was three quarters full; some said when the glass reached capacity. But Lisa kept pouring until the glass over flowed. And she said that we give to people from our overflow. Such a simple concept to grasp, but one not so easily to follow through. But when you think about it, it’s the right thing to do. When we are replenished and refreshed we are in a better place to give to others. Giving to others from our overflow may not be possible all the time, but it is something to aim for. So, when someone is depending on you, but you don’t have it to give, give yourself permission to put down your brother because he may be your brother, but that doesn’t mean he’s not heavy.

Jedi Mind Trickers

 

            As an unattached woman past the age of 40, I may not know married life, but I know single well. I have plenty of dating scenarios—both good and bad—that shape my life experiences. Not originally a big Star Wars fan, I have grown to appreciate the wisdom of the Star Wars Universe.  In Star Wars, the Jedis use the power of force to influence weak-minded people. Jedis make verbal suggestions and tell sentients what they want, and then the sentient restates the position and if the mind trick works, the sentient actually does what the Jedi requests. It is said that strong-minded people can resist the influence of the Jedi.

All of this Star Wars babble came back to me in an epiphany recently as I was reflecting on past relationships. I had been thinking about a conversation that I’d had with a guy I was dating at the time that turned into a full-blown argument after I made some off-the-wall comment that blew his gasket. He claimed that since I had never abused by a man (as in beat me) I didn’t have anything to complain about. Taken aback by his comment because although I had not been “abused,” my relationships had been far from perfect. Priding myself on rarely getting into escalating arguments or being called out of my name (to my face), our conversation made me stop and think of ways men had tried to steal my self-worth.

It was in that moment of reflection I realized some of the Jedis had escaped from the Star Wars Universe and were masquerading as mortal men. In a society that measures a woman’s worth by being married and/or having children, some women become light-headed and giddy when dealing with men and find ourselves under their influence. These Jedi Mind Trickers (JMTs) have words so smooth they go down like Cognac, and before you know it, we have the hang-over from hell because of too many refills of the sweet wine of his words. Do you recognize any of these JMTS?

The One Upper is a very polished guy—most likely metro sexual with exquisite taste in everything—car, clothes, food. Unlike some men, he keeps a spotless house without the aid of a housekeeper or wife, and definitely appreciates good linen. But herein lies the problem, no matter what you have, he can always show you something better, but he’s not willing to buy you better or show you how to get it yourself. Why? Because if you had what he had, he wouldn’t always be able to do you one better which would knock him off his superior post.

Now opposite of The One Upper, is the Understrapper. This JMT thinks that you are a dream the come; the answer to his prayers, only he doesn’t deserve you. You’re too good for him, he tells you in hopes that you’ll believe him. So, you stop trying to better yourself so as not to intimidate your man, and if you’re already accomplished, you downplay yourself. He wants you to sit on the curb with him and swing your feet, and if he can climb on your shoulders and sit, that’s even better.

 The Changer is another Jedi in disguise. Nothing about you satisfies him, but you don’t know that at first because you mistake his JMT behavior with him being a man that really knows what he wants. You wear your hair long, but he thinks short hair is really sexy. You wear your hair short, but he loves to run his fingers through long hair. He likes his women—you fill in the blank (taller, shorter, thicker, thinner etc.)—than you.  You can’t make him happy unless he can change something about you. It’s a power thing, and he thinks he has the power if he can change you.

The Naysayer knows you better than you know yourself. He doesn’t see the glass as half-empty, he sees a glass that’s dirty and contaminated and wants to protect you from it and all of the rest of the dangers in the world. He is the boyfriend of Doom. He thinks going back to school is a waste of time because you’re not going to get the job anyway. He discourages you from losing weight, and then when you do, he still wants you to hold on to your “fat girl” clothes just in case you gain the weight back. The Naysayer has no faith in you because he lacks faith in himself, and he is strong believer in the misery loves company adage.

The Pretender is probably the most Jedi mind tricking of the JMTs. The two of you have great chemistry, good conversation, and he’s the perfect gentleman. He opens doors, carries bags, and does all of the things that make us feel like ladies when we’re in his presence. But as wonderful as he his, there is something not quite right about him. He lies but we don’t know because we’ve been sipping on his sweetness. By the time you realize that you’ve been tricked, bamboozled, and run amok, there’s nothing left for you to do, but pick up the pieces of your broken heart and bank account and move along.

Many of us have found ourselves under one or more of the JMTS influence and, while we may become temporarily inebriated, we don’t have pass out from the drunkenness of our encounters. If you happen to run into one of these JMTs, may the Force NOT be with You!

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."

Moving Toward Peace

My mother lay curled up in the bed watching TV, or maybe like me—the TV is watching her. As the sounds of the church program drone on in the background, my mother looks to be deep in thought. I look at her fragile form cocooned in the center of the bed—the only place she wants to be—and my mind takes me back to one of my favorite stories that she used to tell.

Coming home from work on the second shift one night, she boarded the front of a standing-room only bus. Holding on to the pole with one hand and her purse secured in the fold of her other arm, she felt something move against her and turned to look. A man had his hand in her purse. Reminiscent of a scene taken right out of Langston Hughes "Thank You Ma'am" when Roger tried to snatch Luella Bates Washington Jones purse, the tables turned on my mother's would-be-thief. 

As the words, “You roguish motherfucker!” rolled off her tongue, my mother drew back and left-hand slapped him. “If you steal from me, you’ll steal from your momma.” SLAP! “It’s a hundred passengers on this bus. Why you single me out?” SLAP! “Cuz I’m small?” My mother said the people on the bus watched in stunned silence, but parted like the Red Sea as she slapped the man from the front of the bus to the back. The bus stopped. The driver opened the door, the guy exited, and my mother went on home.

Like Schroeder’s blanket, this story comforts me as I adjust to this period of change for her and me. The mother I remember is the one from the bus: strong-willed, resilient, and tenacious and with a tongue that cut like a fine blade. I’m trying to get used to this “little old lady” lying in the bed, and it’s a struggle for me. Like many children, I believed my mother to be Invincible and Immortal. But the reality is that she is neither.

A solid-size 12-14, I bought my mother some pants recently and I was shocked when the 6 was too big. I know she had lost weight, but there was no way to know how much because she wears pajamas all the time. Because my mother was still going to the farm to pick fresh fruits and vegetables into her early 70s, I was not prepared for that trip down the one-way street to old age in her late 70s. The signs have been visible: rails in the bathroom, the portable toilet, putting her meds in the weekly container every Sunday morning so she knows what to take and when, but I rally against her aging and I am losing.

My mother says she’s tired. She says she has lived her life. And my feelings vacillate with this notion of her believing that her life is done. Sometimes I’m angry, other times, I’m sad, but always I am thankful for her 80 plus years on the planet even though I want her to live to be 100.  The adult in me knows that her declining health is taking its toll; the child in me wants her to be the fighter that she used to be. But who am I to dictate how she lives her last days? My mother has always been one tough cookie, and maybe, just maybe she is tired of fighting. 

My mother has made her peace with God and her time on this earth. And I am working on making peace with my mother.

Violence in America

"I like everyone else am saddened and angry about the deaths in Colorado yesterday.... and yet i am equally saddened that at the death of 12 innocent people in Colorado the whole Nation responded, Eric Holder flys in,the President responds immediately, every news anchor and Network station stays on it 24/7 .....BUT THAT IS A TYPICAL WEEKEND IN CHICAGO and the Nation is silent.........WHY??????????" Father Michael Pfleger of St. Sabina Church

The loss of innocent lives to senseless violence is tragic and horrific. The violence in Colorado clearly shows that something is wrong in our society. And the violence in blighted urban communities also shows that America is plagued by violence. 

 Communities are broken and wounded by unrelenting violence in cities across America. A child outside playing while her mother sells candy doesn’t deserve to die anymore than a young man celebrating his 27^th birthday at a midnight movie showing. And yet, the violence in urban areas only captures headlines in local media where as the violence in Colorado captured not only the attention of the nation, but the world as well. Responses from President Obama, and Presidential opponent Mitt Romney were swift. Media coverage has been 24/7. Why?

Is violence in inner cities more acceptable because that’s what’s expected? Why are we numb to the daily toll that violence takes but continue to be shocked and outraged by the actions of one who methodically plans an attack that kills people? Have we been lulled into a sense of safety that has been shattered by this shooting? The Colorado shooting is a grim reminder that none of us are safe. We can run, but we can’t hide from the violence erupting in cities across America. We forget that that which implodes will eventually explode. 

When the blood of innocent people is spilled in a crowded movie theater or on the street on a hot summer night, those in mourning want to know that the rest of the world cares no matter what the zip code of the victim is. We’re all in this together. We need to recognize that.

My heart goes out the families of victims of violence regardless of their zip code.

Where’s the Love?

Misogyny - hatred of women

Where's the Love for girls and women of color? That's the question running through my mind as I think about Heaven Sutton, the 7year-old killed in the cross fire of gang violence. I watched the news to see how much coverage the story would get, but sadly her funeral was a blip on the evening news tied in with the deaths of three others in the President’s hometown that continues to be plagued by violence. Wow! That was all there was to the story.

Unlike Trayvon Martin, there is no galvanized support for this child’s death just as there was none for 6 year-old Aliyah Shell, the 6 year-old Hispanic girl who was killed a few months ago. Heaven and Aliyah both live in Chicago, and yet the Trayvon Martin tragedy which happened in Florida got significant more coverage. Why? Because we wanted to fan the growing racial flame? Because we expect violent deaths in certain communities and not in gated ones or is this symptomatic of something larger?

The premature death of any child or young person as a result of violence is tragic. But the world would have us believe the loss is greater if it’s a white girl or woman or a black male – sexism and racism at its best. So, a person of the wrong gender and color is just as invisible in death has she had been in life.

Time will pass, and we will remember the names of Trayvon Martin, Darion Albert and Emmett Till. We will also remember Joan Benet and Caylee Anthony. But how many of us will honor the memory of Heaven, Aliyah just by remembering their names?

Growing up, I heard the story of the four little girls killed when racists bombed the 16^th Street Baptist church on a Sunday morning. I also remember hearing the names of Michael Schwerner, Andrew Goodman and James Chaney – a group of interracial civil rights workers who were found dead in 1964. Their names were always strung together – Schnwerner, Goodman and Chaney, but they were named.

 It wasn’t until I saw Spike Lee’s documentary, Four Little Girls that I learned the girls’ names – Addie McNair, Carol Robertson, Cynthia Wesley and Denise McNair. They are not a unit; they are four individuals from four different families with four different stories. But we lump them together as one. Why don’t their names roll off our tongues? Are they not worthy of remembering?

We’ll acknowledge that racism exists now. We’ll even so far as to say that we’re post-racial. We’ll also acknowledge sexism and admit that women are not treated as equals in society. But we run from misogyny because it’s such an ugly term – hatred of women. 

 As a woman it’s painful to believe that the world I live in does not love me because of my gender. But based on all that I read; that I see; that I experience, I know it to be true. But while I am saddened by this knowledge, I am not deterred by it. Acknowledgement is the first step on the path to evolution. We have work to do and we can begin by knowing and remembering the names of Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, Cynthia Wesley and Denise McNair. Let’s also remember Heaven Sutton, Aliyah Shell and countless others names we have forgotten. They deserve at least that much from us.

Who else should we remember? Leave their names in the comment section. Thank you for remembering.