If you’ll recall, the last entry ended with the revelation of my blackness and the naiveté in which I wielded it against another black person. Intrigued? Read it!
So how did I get to that point?
Well let’s start at (my) Genesis: I am a descendant of the original savages–a black African–but was also a born-again opportunity to start anew. With a little luck, a few colonial-era scholarships to educate the “savage,” a big leap-frog over slavery and its kissing cousin, Jim Crow, the Dixiecrats, and segregation, I landed as an American in the #NewSouth. #anchorbaby
Looking back I think I was a blank, black canvas on which whites around me could write and re-write and re-envision their ancestral interactions in the New South. Separated from my brown brothers and sisters across town and in different schools, segregated interactions with me and my family were a “pleasure,” an opportunity, a “joy.” Small white children could freely ask questions about my hair; ok, let’s be real, they just reached for it. But they did ask questions about my brown skin–is it dirty, does it rub off on your sheets? My childhood best friend, an early “ally” before it was cool responded to that girl’s query with a six-year old’s answer: a push in the chest.
(Liberal-minded) adults invited us to the occasional function; I remember sitting with these adults near a bonfire, amazed that children and teenagers would run around the pitch-black woods trying to capture a flag. No one would find me in the dark–an advantage according to the other kids; I shuddered at the thought.
My father enjoyed the company of white academics and scholars as the first black professor. My mother, a registered nurse, encountered some racism but most were too confused. They couldn’t reconcile an African nurse with a British-African-Southern accent. Was she European-trained? Is that good? But she’s black? Will her brown skin rub off on me?
*head explodes*
*Nurse Mom cleans it up*
We lived a rather privileged life. We were different, not only in name and look, but in the white imagination. Seemingly untainted by America’s dark(ie) history and able to thrive in this “racist” America.
So, how can America be racist? Look at these fine black (African) people.
We’re simultaneously different (read: better) and representative of all the blacks.
But, we ARE different.
Sub-Saharan African immigrants:
-are more educated than other immigrants and the US-born.
-participated in the labor force at a higher rate than the overall immigrant and U.S.-born populations.
-are more likely to be employed in management, business, science, and arts occupations than other immigrants. (source)
Anecdotally, the immigrants and first-gens I know and love embody these statistics. At best, they acknowledge their privileged head-start and walk the path to become a doctor or lawyer that their parents dictated for them before birth. (Shout-out though to this new group of African first and second gens making waves in the arts and media and entertainment. Braver than I ever was. #crushedreams)
Privilege is dangerous. Unacknowledged privilege can be deadly. #notallAfricans
So, does that make us the white folks of black folks?
In reality, no.
No cop can distinguish an African from an African-American, maybe ever. #amadoudiallo
But, in a fantasyland? Maybe?
When I was dutifully being seen and not heard, I remember my elders lamenting how black Americans didn’t take advantage of all that America has to offer. This group of doctors, lawyers, professors, nurses, and business-owners–the beneficiaries of skills-based visas, international scholarships, generational resources–couldn’t understand why blacks continued to struggle one to two generations after slavery.
This sense of superiority was reinforced every year I was the only black face in my class.
For 10 years.
The only black child in the spelling bee.
Piano competitions.
Leadership conferences.
In my office, as a I draft this…
I know why I was often alone.
I thought like a white man, unaware of the advantages that I had. I too often reveled in being alone because I didn’t see common cause with other black and brown people. I never asked why I was alone. I wasn’t quick to anger at slights against them and I wasn’t eager to join those conversations. I didn’t think I needed them because I wasn’t one of them. I certainly didn’t think they needed me.
I didn’t think my first and only black history teacher needed me. He quit.
Think Like a White Man 