I once stated on here that race relations in America were heading towards a train crash that most seemed to be conveniently oblivious to (with no further explanation of what I meant, of course). Well, maybe a train crash was a bit dramatic, but that they are confused and screwed up, I would certainly be willing to argue.
The first thought you would probably have is that I’m talking about racism (and, if that is the case – in our American minds, white on black racism). However, I am not. Where to start?
Simplistically, I am of darker skin. On a more complex level, I would be labeled half black and half white. Truly, I am multiracial. My mother was born and raised in Haiti. Her grandmother was from the lighter side of the country, her French heritage clear upon her. My grandfather was from the darker side, a mix of Haitian and Spaniard. My father is European, for the most part – his lines run from England to Poland to Scotland to Germany.
But if you were to talk to anyone, they would generally call me black. I am reminded of the time in elementary school that my mother made a fuss over what race the school marked me down as; the secretary wanted to simply check African-American and be done with it; my mother insisted that’s not what I was.
Yet in America, it doesn’t matter whether you’re really from Nigeria rather than born and bred here. No, it won’t always even matter if you happen to be Japanese instead. You’re not white – racism will follow you. In that sense, I am black. People will see me as that and I shall be treated accordingly. I have no qualms with this. I understand it and take it. My skin is dark.
Even still, I have never understood most demonstrations and protests in justification of being black. I have studied and followed the history in America, yes – I know well slavery, done projects on it; one of my favorite time periods is the black civil rights movement; one of my favorite speeches is I Have a Dream. I’ve been subject to racism (though I doubt no one hasn’t been or isn’t well aware of it). Even before I faced it, a favorite movie in my household is Roots. I knew of racism since I was born.
There was a problem, though. I’m middle class. The majority I’ve always known is white because that was what my classmates were for the most part. In fact, as I got older, the less racism I faced and the more my skin became an irrelevancy. I know better, so I’ve often wondered in awe how you could view someone who was different as the same as you so easily – my greatest acceptance (when it came to my skin) was from the majority. Other races for me were the many types of Asian. And while I have a deep love for rap, I’m a complete metal head, while my all time favorite artist happens to be Bruce Springsteen (taken from my dad, I admit). It was a white rapper who interested me in genre first, and Big Pun made me realize that my own windings among rhyme and alliteration were hardly anything in comparison. I consider myself a video game nerd. Some of my closest friends were the techies working backstage at the concerts (I have since become one since applying for a job in college, I am happy to report). My list of girlfriends has been Caucasian (if only for the reason I had little other choice, given my raising). And I have a fierce love for the gothic subculture; I remember listening to a spoken word poet listing the ways the majority stays complacent, shutting out the problems of the world; she lists the indignity of Columbine being placed on rap and video games; and then she cries, “Go back to your ‘goth’,” and I wanted to shout objection; did you forget they targeted us after Columbine just as much as the previous two?
So am I any less black? Will I be viewed and judged differently? In the days leading up to the primaries for the Democratic Party, some of the “black leaders” said that Obama didn’t share with other blacks in America that history of slavery and was, therefore, different from them.
One of my “brothers” happens to be a Jew. Of my “sisters”, one happens to be blue-eyed and the other a mixed Hispanic.
I don’t know (nor understand) a “black” culture. I don’t understand what the green, black, and red colors of an African continent does for an American like myself, nor would I suppose it make much sense, if I considered my own heritage.
So you’re probably thinking – are you criticizing black people? Is this some type of perverse racism and you feel the need to separate yourself from black people? Are you really this bored?
America is characterized as a people of no color. In my mind, that has always meant that we were a people despite our differences. As I viewed the statue of Thomas Jefferson in Washington, I stood in the shadow of a man who shaped our nation – of which I was just as much a part of. This man may have not been Haitian, but he was certainly me. With every word of the Declaration of Independence, he was crafting my beliefs and my future.
I may not have ancestors who suffered the pains of slavery in America, yet I view with pride the abolitionists who spoke out against it and the slaves who wove their own culture into the American fabric.
I am a child of Western thought. The Greeks laid out the idea of a free government and the Romans crafted a form of what would be our own, someday. To those minds I owe and I make no mistake of it.
I did not find alienation in the women’s civil rights movement and I use the words of Jane Addams and Sojourner Truth often enough.
I wasn’t hosed down during the 60s, but it is one of my favorite times to study. It was those people who paved the way to the acceptance I receive today. It was a moment when we said, “We might have inherited many problems, but at no point can we not overcome them.”
When I think of America, the words, “Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand/A mighty woman with a torch…/‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she/With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor,/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,/I lift my lamp beside the golden door!’” grace upon my lips, heaving with the spirit that must have infected the many who came to our land.
The Grapes of Wrath, for me, didn’t describe a strange people or a landscape I didn’t know. I read with dislike the internment of Americans with Japanese ancestry. I rejoiced at the discovery of Stonewall. I sat with solemn acknowledgement at what the two Marches on Washington (1963 and 1979) meant for us as a nation.
In short, every facet of American history defined me. We never got it right everytime – indeed, our grievances are many. But I take pride in what we have done. And I don’t understand why any person would isolate themselves to one position based on their heritage. Perhaps I’ve been too swayed by the words of King, but unification is the only route in my mind. I characterize myself as an American first and foremost.
There is no “black” culture but only what of our culture was taken from people of color. I will identify myself as a German (among other things), I eat everyday now with chopsticks (something I always wanted to do since a kid), and I proclaim loudly, “In the future days which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms. The first is freedom of speech and expression…. The second is freedom of every person to worship God in his own way…. The third is freedom from want…. The fourth is freedom from fear…”, “It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion…— and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth”, and “Yesterday the greatest question was decided which ever was debated in America; and a greater perhaps never was, nor will be, decided among men. A resolution was passed without one dissenting colony, ‘that these United Colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent States.’”
And, perhaps, most importantly, I believe deeply in that Latin saying – e pluribus unum.
So what am I, America? Should I cling to an identity – whether that be black or Haitian or German or male – and define myself by it, letting no others share it?
What am I, America? Should I find connection in only those like myself? Should I see my history only from those eyes?
What am I, America?
I thought I was American.
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