Race and the Black Girl

Racism is not just a word that describes old thinking. Social media is constantly giving racism legs as it gives people the courage to hide behind their keyboards while broadcasting their ignorance to the world.

Last week was the close of Black History Month. Sadly it is the month where most school kids talk about the BHM trifecta: MLK, Malcolm X and Rosa Parks. Usually they are tales of triumph about larger-than-life, hero/heroine, superhuman figures whose sacrifices led to the progression of the human mind. And while some of this is quite accurate, the truth is, they were human. And many times, their sacrifices were also human.

So often we, myself included, take this month to spout out facts in Black History (which is really just regular old history, if you ask me. But that’s another blog for another day). But, we rarely focus on the history of being Black: what it means to grow up black in America, what it does to your psyche, and what it intends to do to your self worth.

What does it mean to watch your friend murdered because he dared to speak to someone of a different race? What does it mean to read about your neighbor being strung up in someone’s front yard because of some ill-conceived notion of racial retribution? Perhaps this alarming disregard and under-appreciation for life is the reason each generation is so willing to kill over the triviality of superficiality.

The truth is injustices litter the yellow-brick road to freedom for all races. And, though weary, we must continue to tread the path. And while I wasn’t so naïve as to believe that my race wouldn’t be a factor in a brown-faced country, I assumed I would be looked at more because of my Americanism and less for my chocolate-ness.

Fun fact: Race is an issue everywhere. Or rather pigment is an issue everywhere. It’s sad, but true.

While having coffee the first week I was here, we met a man from the U.K. I’m not really sure how we ended up on the topic of race relations in the states. But alas, we did. Our conversation drifted to the movie Selma. He didn’t know the story so I told him. I am especially passionate about it since I’ve met Ms. Joann Bland, one of Bloody Sunday’s youngest survivors.

He listened intently and said, “that was right after slavery, right?” That was shocking to me. Not that he was unfamiliar with historical facts of a country he’d only visited once or twice. But, it was shocking that he didn’t know how much the issue of race is still ever present and sometimes overwhelmingly stifling.

I had to explain to him that voting issues were not only causing problems in the 60s, but laws were being drafted with similar limitations as recent as a year or two ago and murders on the basis of race are currently and constantly being publicized.

He asked for an example and my immediate thought went to my generation’s Emmett Till: Trayvon Martin. As I started to tell the story, he chimed in with facts from the Eric Garner case. I said “no, that’s different.” I continued. He broke in again with facts about Michael Brown. Nope. Not him either. Kathryn mentioned something about Jordan Davis. No, but that was in Florida.

And then Kathryn said something I hadn’t even realized. She noted how sad it was that we had mentioned all these babies' names that have died in recent years and still hadn’t even cleared the actual story with which we started.

Well damn. That hurt.

A recent statistic stated that more black men are in prison or jail than were enslaved in 1850. One could say that statistic is arguably indeterminable but the point is, the number must be great enough to even consider the study.

What does this statistic have to do with the stories above? Each of these men is dead because of some misunderstanding often predicated by long-standing racial stereotypes. We would be remiss if we ignored the probability that, if some of these men had been allowed to live, regardless of guilt, they would have added to that number.

So again, it is this knowledge that festers at the core of my very existence as I walk this earth. And it is this knowledge that boiled to the surface recently. Here, amongst brown faces, amongst people who share a pigment that our ancestors were taught to hate, I felt the sudden awareness of my blackness.

I, and a group of new friends, decided to go out to a club. I was the last in the group as we were entering. Everyone paid his or her cover. As I was about to do the same, I was first told this was a private party. When I pushed and told them my friends had just gone in, I was then told I would not be granted entry without a membership.

Hmm. Interesting.

My companions turned around to determine the problem. Once it was realized that I was in fact with them, I was granted entrance with the apologies of the gatekeeper.

Well…now that was oddly familiar.

I didn’t want their apologies, nor did I find it necessary to spend my money there. We, as a group in solidarity, decided to go elsewhere for the night. The people I was with were completely shocked and appalled. Although I was quite familiar with the feeling and situation, it was unexpectedly received in Colombia.

My new American friends talked to me as if it were the first time I had experienced something like that. They said, and I quote, “That died in the 60s.” I definitely took that time to educate them. And while I could wax poetically on about how I was surprised they were so shocked that racial tensions were still so high back at home, my own ignorance of worldwide-racial tensions also concerned me. We can’t fix a world of problems if we don’t know the entire world has the same problems.

As I listened to my friends continue with a litany of hopes of a colorblind world, I was reminded of something my youngest sister, Brittanie, said. To paraphrase, she said to claim to be colorblind means you don’t see my color. And if you don’t see my color, you don’t see me.

That, in effect, is the entire problem. We don’t see each other. We don’t see the human in each other. Maybe instead of pushing for a colorblind world, we should push for color-honor world.

I see you. I honor you. I respect you. I love you.

#colombia #janelle #racism