This is one of the more difficult things I've found myself writing to date. Consequently, it may be one of the most significant and relevant pieces I've put to paper (metaphorically).
The inspiration to do this came from two seemingly dissimilar pieces of art which happen to be equal in value to me in their ability to provide commentary on the black experience and to serve as therapy for the black soul. The first is the song m.A.A.d City by Kendrick Lamar, a song which depicts rather vividly the violence and maadness that occurs on a daily basis in Compton, California. This has always been one of my favorite tracks, however it wasn't until after reading the beginning of Ta-Nehisi Coates' book Between the World and Me that I was allowed to put KDot's work into focus. Both pieces serve as brutally honest examples of the constant violence, depression, and poverty which masses of black people are subjected to. A reality I was never really exposed to. After reading the first c,hapters of Coates' work and re-listening to Kendrick's classic I felt, for the first time, the heavy truth that compared to my other siblings I have been extremely privileged. My hometown of Des Moines, Iowa has a histoy of de jure segregation and consequently inequality; consistent with America's legacy Des Moines has sentenced its Black residents to second class citizenship. This is an indictment which for most of my life I have avoided. Around the age of 7 my mother and step-dad moved our family out of a neighborhood designated for the poor, mostly black and brown residents of the city, and into what is the white - and effectively - sociologically less turbulent part of town. As a result I was not confined to a second rate education (I ended up attending one of the most prestigious and rigorous magnet schools in the country). Unlike KDot, Ta-Nehisi, and countless other Black people in my own city I did not have to dedicate "fully one third of my brain to my safety" or "make sure [my] colors were correct." I don't remember ever spending a day hungry, never did I really face the reality of incarceration as a realistic fear, never did I feel like I might have to participate in illicit activities to support myself or my family, never was I subjected to true second class citizenship. For the most part I lived the life Ta-Nehisi Coates described as only seeing on tv. Middle-Class comfort (that's not to say my parents didn't have it rough. Often times Black Middle-Class families are the least secure of the Middle-Class), the ability to focus my brain on things other than my safety, top notch schools, scholarships to top notch colleges, the freedom of not having to learn a code so as to protect my body, and - perhaps most profoundly - the opportunity to have a class of people to look down upon. That's not to say I did. I was always aware of my blackness, and proud of it. It was something I had picked up from two strong women in my life. My mother, who in her hay day would tout an Afro complete with a black power pick in the back of her hair, who danced disco and soul, later fell in love with Tupac and always told me black is beautiful. And my big sister who although having won Des Moines' Ms. Juneteenth pageant, never really spoke to me about blackness, instead she wore her own with stunning grace, marching through life's trials and tribulations chin held high. So I was always conscious of my identity, and when I got accepted into Central Academy as one of three black boys in my graduating class, I understood my blackness was antithetical to the purpose of the school which was to train the children of the white bourgeois. However, I cannot imagine that this psychological weight begins to compare with the violent terrorism multitudes of Black people are subjected to. I also recognized early on that my light skin (relative) gave me even more special status among black people. As early as elementary school I recognized how darker children would be teased, called "blacky", "darky", "african", "midnight." The ugly head of colorism was another form of violence I was never subjected to. At the same time some were being terrorized for their black features I would be praised on my freckles and green eyes (mostly by other black folk - most of my white peers instead became transfixed with my hair, many times asking to run their hands through it, sometimes commenting on how tangled and nappy it was). My proximity to whiteness (relative) means that I will be seen as handsome (again, relative to white standards of beauty) only at the expense of by darker, equally as beautiful, brothers and sisters. And of course there's the fact that I'm a man. I've already spent full, rather heated, blog posts on this subject but I find it'd be inappropriate not to address this privilege in this (and optimally every) post. Watching the damage we inflict on our sisters, mothers, wives, is disheartening. Especially because these Black Queens are the same ones who ride for us, have our backs, and support us through our own struggles. Even I used to complain about how "sassy" my sisters were, I'd tell them to lose the "attitude" even make fun of their "nappy" hair (their father is considerably darker than mine, so they are considerably darker than I, which makes all of this worse). For years I sat idly by while people, black white and otherwise, made fun of "ratchet," "ghetto," "loud," black women while calling white women who do the same "feminists" (Examine how Nicki Minaj and Katy Perry are talked about despite approaching music and the way they carry themselves in similar ways). I can no longer remain silent on this either. I must recognize this privilege. In the same way that white people must know their place in fighting for justice on behalf of people of color, I must understand when to stand back and let the voices of the less privileged resonate, as should all people who benefit from some form of privilege. This means staying away from the mic at a "Stop the Violence" rally. It means sharing the stories of those trapped in the cycle of poverty rather than centering myself by doing the "food stamp challenge." It means retweeting pictures on #MelaninMonday rather than posting one of myself. It means taking the word of rape victims rather than insisting on giving alleged rapists the benefit of the doubt under the guise of "lets not tear down black men." If we truly want justice we must spotlight the marginalized. That cannot be done without first confronting our own privilege. -515
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October 2018
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