All I Got
"I reserve the right be a nigger" - Flip Wilson
The Boondocks finally premiered on Cartoon Network last night. I have to say I enjoyed it alot especially when it reminded me of the many times I have heard that backhanded compliment/insult of "you are so articulate". Not unlike a.n.d.y.'s recounted experience of "You are a credit to your race" type comments, I found that particular point in the show quite amusing.*sigh*.
Ignorant assholes say the daftest things don't they?
As soon as the show ended, I called my dad to get his reaction. Aaron McGruder has been on my dad's radar since he quoted Flip Wilson . My father said hearing about Aaron McGruder reminded him of himself when he was younger. So he feels that this kind of show is way overdue and necessary. He is proud that McGruder is using his words and intellect because it not only rocks the boat, it completely capsizes it. Dad said that Boondocks, although it is an animation/comic strip, is needed and is relevant, even if he didn't agree with some of the things presented. I started to think about my dad and all that he taught me about my own relevance.
My dad grew up in Alabama during the 50's and 60's. Being a young, black boy in this time was a real Survivor experience. Instead of fearing massive waterfalls and rivers, and fierce crocodiles, my dad faced water hoses, and Jim Crow crocodiles. He was used to seeing racism: blatant, violent, and open. His experiences as a child differed greatly from mine. I think he made it a point to take what he learned from it and teach me. I was taught to defend myself in different ways if I felt disrespected. My dad used to say that if someone had the nerve to call you a nigger, your response should be: "You think you see a nigger? Then come on and try to kick a nigger's ass!"..and then be prepared to beat the person down. (My father, the minister, was still gangsta when he needed to be.) When Flip Wilson said, I reserve the right to be a nigger, my father said he understood what he meant. That is why he told me if someone affronts you in an attempt to dehumanize you, then your reaction could either prove or disprove the beliefs they espouse. You have the choice to make in that moment. You decide which route you want to take, but before you choose, really think about the message you want to convey, and then decide what the appropriate defense will be: words or fists? legal recourse or street justice? It's a precarious position to be in and one day I will write about the times I have had to take Malcolm's "by any mean's necessary" route to respect instead of Martin's more peaceful way.
I suppose my dad's pragmatic approach to racism was instilled in me since childhood. His lessons were my lessons. His anger was my anger. Instead of letting his anger cripple him, shackle him, or deter him, he used it as motivation. He took advantage of the options that existed for him: military, affirmative action, etc. He didn't back down when he was told no. He wouldn't get discouraged when they told him he wasn't accepted. He just dealt with whatever came his way. Through the years, my father managed to form friendships with all types of people, some even I questioned sometimes. I used to have an attitude when I saw my father schmoozing with wealthy people, golfing in their communities, joining their clubs, affiliating with their political candidates. When I was younger, I felt that he was selling out. I remember asking him why he felt the need to tap dance for white people and coon all the time. I will never forget the expression on his face. I thought he was going to slap the hell out of me. He just told me if I thought that playing golf, joining socials clubs, or supporting a particular political candidate was behavior reserved for white people, then he clearly had failed as a father and a black man. Well, needless to say, I had NO response. I realized that my "blackness" is not and will not be defined by anyone else. The melanin of my skin is something to be proud of because it represents a lineage of greatness. I have no obligation to behave a certain way so that others can identify me as black. I am black.
For some black parents, packing up your 13 yr old black daughter's pink bedroom and sending her to the backwoods of Mississippi to attend a boarding school could be considered outrageous. For my parents, it was a natural, logical, and easy decision that didn't seem to bring them much strife. After all, I had been in predominantly white, Christian schools and diverse neighborhoods for most of my formative years. I had been immersed in diversity and exposed to many ethnicities, all the while being taught important lessons at home about my skin color and what it means.
Before my parents drove off, I asked my father what to do if the white people didn't accept/like me. He looked at me pensively, and he said that it wasn't my job to make white people (or anyone for that matter) like me. I only had to be myself. My father is a genius. In that moment he taught me another important lesson: to thine own self be true. My parents seemed to show me in so many ways that there was no stereotype or myth that stuck to us. If there was something we enjoyed, whether it was music, food, clothes, art, culture, ANY thing I liked, I shouldn't make apologies for it. I wasn't looking to be accepted, I was looking for the freedom to be me. I knew that maintaining who I am was important. I wasn't going to conform, emulate, assimilate, imitate or pretend to be someone I wasn't. Admittedly, my childhood background in predominantly white schools/neighborhoods already exposed me to things that some black kids weren't in to and white kids were. But I didn't shun away from anything nor was I embarrassed about things the white kids weren't knowledgeable about. I would talk about greasing my scalp, getting perms, and gospel music with anyone who listened. My school years resembled a Laguna Beach episode at times and I was smack in the middle of it all having fun. I was the nerd, athlete (gymnastics/ran track), popular chick, and active leader: Girl's Club President, Yearbook Editor, Resident's Assistant in the dorm. I went on adventurous trips, kayaking, camping, boating, hiking. I was having a grand time and some days I really forgot that I was the only brown girl on the entire campus.
But there is nothing like a burning cross to jolt you back to reality of the outside world. (It seems that having only one brown girl in the school was not enough reason for the white boys to approve of a black guy going to a dance with a white girl.) I remember feeling an intense amount of anger at the indifference of my friends over the entire incident. I still recall the awkwardness of that time in my life. After having friendships that I thought were based on mutual respect and understanding, I realized that there are some things my white friends could never really share with me, and sometimes, the most they can do is empathize. I think now that is perfectly fine with me. I would rather they tell me they don't know what I feel, BUT they understand why I was frustrated instead of giving me pseudo emotions, words, or strange looks. That only made me feel worse. But I digress.
So I called my father irate, crying, and upset.
He asked me one question, "Was the cross burned outside your dorm room?"
I said, "Well, no but you know it was meant as a threat and meant to be hurtful".
He told me that since this ignorant act wasn't directed at me, I had the opportunity to react in a way that could make a difference. Well, initially I wanted a baseball bat and a couple of Tyrones from back home to make a difference. Then he advised me to not get overly emotional. He wanted me to think clearly and told me if I had concerns, then I should write them down, and present them to the Dean of Student Affairs. In this situation, he wanted me to use my head. So I wrote a letter. It was "passionate, heart-felt, controversial, and relevant", according to the Dean. The letter appeared in the school newspaper along with the story of the cross-burning incident. I think this was the first time I ever realized how powerful my words can be. I found that my voice, my feelings, my emotions, were relevant. . Nobody can take away my voice or my words. Like Amel sings...sometimes my sheer will is all I got.
With all the proverbial ammunition in education, status, influence, intellect, and determination that comes with being a bullet proof diva, I reserve the right to react like a "nigger" or "bitch" if someone decides to call me one. Just like my dad taught me.
"All I Got" by AMEL LARRIEUX
The Boondocks finally premiered on Cartoon Network last night. I have to say I enjoyed it alot especially when it reminded me of the many times I have heard that backhanded compliment/insult of "you are so articulate". Not unlike a.n.d.y.'s recounted experience of "You are a credit to your race" type comments, I found that particular point in the show quite amusing.*sigh*.
Ignorant assholes say the daftest things don't they?
As soon as the show ended, I called my dad to get his reaction. Aaron McGruder has been on my dad's radar since he quoted Flip Wilson . My father said hearing about Aaron McGruder reminded him of himself when he was younger. So he feels that this kind of show is way overdue and necessary. He is proud that McGruder is using his words and intellect because it not only rocks the boat, it completely capsizes it. Dad said that Boondocks, although it is an animation/comic strip, is needed and is relevant, even if he didn't agree with some of the things presented. I started to think about my dad and all that he taught me about my own relevance.
My dad grew up in Alabama during the 50's and 60's. Being a young, black boy in this time was a real Survivor experience. Instead of fearing massive waterfalls and rivers, and fierce crocodiles, my dad faced water hoses, and Jim Crow crocodiles. He was used to seeing racism: blatant, violent, and open. His experiences as a child differed greatly from mine. I think he made it a point to take what he learned from it and teach me. I was taught to defend myself in different ways if I felt disrespected. My dad used to say that if someone had the nerve to call you a nigger, your response should be: "You think you see a nigger? Then come on and try to kick a nigger's ass!"..and then be prepared to beat the person down. (My father, the minister, was still gangsta when he needed to be.) When Flip Wilson said, I reserve the right to be a nigger, my father said he understood what he meant. That is why he told me if someone affronts you in an attempt to dehumanize you, then your reaction could either prove or disprove the beliefs they espouse. You have the choice to make in that moment. You decide which route you want to take, but before you choose, really think about the message you want to convey, and then decide what the appropriate defense will be: words or fists? legal recourse or street justice? It's a precarious position to be in and one day I will write about the times I have had to take Malcolm's "by any mean's necessary" route to respect instead of Martin's more peaceful way.
I suppose my dad's pragmatic approach to racism was instilled in me since childhood. His lessons were my lessons. His anger was my anger. Instead of letting his anger cripple him, shackle him, or deter him, he used it as motivation. He took advantage of the options that existed for him: military, affirmative action, etc. He didn't back down when he was told no. He wouldn't get discouraged when they told him he wasn't accepted. He just dealt with whatever came his way. Through the years, my father managed to form friendships with all types of people, some even I questioned sometimes. I used to have an attitude when I saw my father schmoozing with wealthy people, golfing in their communities, joining their clubs, affiliating with their political candidates. When I was younger, I felt that he was selling out. I remember asking him why he felt the need to tap dance for white people and coon all the time. I will never forget the expression on his face. I thought he was going to slap the hell out of me. He just told me if I thought that playing golf, joining socials clubs, or supporting a particular political candidate was behavior reserved for white people, then he clearly had failed as a father and a black man. Well, needless to say, I had NO response. I realized that my "blackness" is not and will not be defined by anyone else. The melanin of my skin is something to be proud of because it represents a lineage of greatness. I have no obligation to behave a certain way so that others can identify me as black. I am black.
For some black parents, packing up your 13 yr old black daughter's pink bedroom and sending her to the backwoods of Mississippi to attend a boarding school could be considered outrageous. For my parents, it was a natural, logical, and easy decision that didn't seem to bring them much strife. After all, I had been in predominantly white, Christian schools and diverse neighborhoods for most of my formative years. I had been immersed in diversity and exposed to many ethnicities, all the while being taught important lessons at home about my skin color and what it means.
Before my parents drove off, I asked my father what to do if the white people didn't accept/like me. He looked at me pensively, and he said that it wasn't my job to make white people (or anyone for that matter) like me. I only had to be myself. My father is a genius. In that moment he taught me another important lesson: to thine own self be true. My parents seemed to show me in so many ways that there was no stereotype or myth that stuck to us. If there was something we enjoyed, whether it was music, food, clothes, art, culture, ANY thing I liked, I shouldn't make apologies for it. I wasn't looking to be accepted, I was looking for the freedom to be me. I knew that maintaining who I am was important. I wasn't going to conform, emulate, assimilate, imitate or pretend to be someone I wasn't. Admittedly, my childhood background in predominantly white schools/neighborhoods already exposed me to things that some black kids weren't in to and white kids were. But I didn't shun away from anything nor was I embarrassed about things the white kids weren't knowledgeable about. I would talk about greasing my scalp, getting perms, and gospel music with anyone who listened. My school years resembled a Laguna Beach episode at times and I was smack in the middle of it all having fun. I was the nerd, athlete (gymnastics/ran track), popular chick, and active leader: Girl's Club President, Yearbook Editor, Resident's Assistant in the dorm. I went on adventurous trips, kayaking, camping, boating, hiking. I was having a grand time and some days I really forgot that I was the only brown girl on the entire campus.
But there is nothing like a burning cross to jolt you back to reality of the outside world. (It seems that having only one brown girl in the school was not enough reason for the white boys to approve of a black guy going to a dance with a white girl.) I remember feeling an intense amount of anger at the indifference of my friends over the entire incident. I still recall the awkwardness of that time in my life. After having friendships that I thought were based on mutual respect and understanding, I realized that there are some things my white friends could never really share with me, and sometimes, the most they can do is empathize. I think now that is perfectly fine with me. I would rather they tell me they don't know what I feel, BUT they understand why I was frustrated instead of giving me pseudo emotions, words, or strange looks. That only made me feel worse. But I digress.
So I called my father irate, crying, and upset.
He asked me one question, "Was the cross burned outside your dorm room?"
I said, "Well, no but you know it was meant as a threat and meant to be hurtful".
He told me that since this ignorant act wasn't directed at me, I had the opportunity to react in a way that could make a difference. Well, initially I wanted a baseball bat and a couple of Tyrones from back home to make a difference. Then he advised me to not get overly emotional. He wanted me to think clearly and told me if I had concerns, then I should write them down, and present them to the Dean of Student Affairs. In this situation, he wanted me to use my head. So I wrote a letter. It was "passionate, heart-felt, controversial, and relevant", according to the Dean. The letter appeared in the school newspaper along with the story of the cross-burning incident. I think this was the first time I ever realized how powerful my words can be. I found that my voice, my feelings, my emotions, were relevant. . Nobody can take away my voice or my words. Like Amel sings...sometimes my sheer will is all I got.
With all the proverbial ammunition in education, status, influence, intellect, and determination that comes with being a bullet proof diva, I reserve the right to react like a "nigger" or "bitch" if someone decides to call me one. Just like my dad taught me.
"All I Got" by AMEL LARRIEUX
Got these feet
In these shoes
They walked a mile or two,
Got these legs
They've done work
That's left them black and blue,
Got these hips
They are wide
But they know how to move,
Got these hands
To lift the weak
Or slap down a racist fool
This is all I
This is all I got
Got this place
I call my home
But it's no Taj Mahal,
Got these pockets
They ain't full grown
But I won't steal from no one,
Got this heart
Well it's been broke
But it's still beating strong,
Got this song
It ain't much
But it helps me carry on
This is all I
This is all I got
Got a will
That lifts me up
When my body can't
Got a way
Of getting' through
With no helping hands
Got a mind
That lends me strength
So I ain't afraid to stand
Got a love
So deep in me
Can't be stopped by any man
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