I recently experienced what I like to call my very own voyage to Mecca. Like one of my lifelong heroes, Malcolm X, I've encountered a brand new world, a new ideal and a new revelation.
Born and raised in an Afrocentric environment for most of my pre-adolescent years, my father introduced me to racial awareness, heritage, and cultural and self pride. My father was a strict man with very strong opinions. He would not allow us to wear straightened hairstyles, and we couldn't wear make up or nail polish; these things would show the world that I was not proud of looking black and preferred to look like a white girl.
During the 13 years he was here with me, I inherited a stern disdain for anything that wasn't "black," a wholesome hatred for those who didn't respect the pain of the black struggle in America. I especially learned to resent white people who appeared to own this attitude toward my people. I even taught myself that they were the reason I was forced to wear those damn braids until eighth grade.
I grew up in an all-black neighborhood. I went to school with Caucasians but had limited contact with them, by choice, except the occasional torment I proudly delivered to white girls around my locker. They reveled in whiteness, with their luxury cars in 10th grade, while we piled on that crappy, hot, old school bus. Their irritating smiles, like they had no worries; their chipper displays at 7:30 each morning—I took their peace as an insult. They were the reasons, indirectly, for everything that made my people kill each other, rob each other, drop out of school, work hard and die broke. Why? Because the peace passed down to them at birth, the peace they flaunted in our faces, is exactly what we—black people—lived every day trying to find. Just for a moment. They got to have it freely, just by being born white. I was sickened by it.
In every encounter I had with a white person, I was prepared to be mistreated by them. I believed that no person born with a pale face could ever genuinely be my friend. I believed that "they" were out for themselves, so we should be out for ourselves. I felt I was one up on them by knowing that they were evil deep down.
My life was interrupted from its regular ease by the opportunity to face my beliefs head on. My journey began with comments under a recent column by Kamikaze, ""Let the Chickens Roost"," and my Mecca was the Jackson Free Press.
Get this! Not all white people are out to get me, or us. There are white people living right next door to me, in my city, that have experienced pain and hurt at the hands of racists. These people are disgusted by the tactics of their ancestors, and in some cases their immediate family members. They've been disowned for not agreeing that black people are inferior to whites. They've been insulted and called traitors just for having black friends or for not hating blacks. They are just as pissed off about it as I am, as my father was. These people are white people. I'm talking real white—not biracial or underprivileged. These are regular, hard-working, sensible, white folks.
I now have chatted with those who have accepted that the racial disharmony between whites and blacks must be addressed. I have talked to mothers who have no idea how to deal with their children because they aren't sure how to present the "black/white" issues, not wanting to seem racist, but wanting to offer pride in the culture that claims them. I thought for so long that it had to be one or the other. Ironically, my son, to whom I've been regurgitating this uninformed idea since he entered this world, has realized that his mommy "just doesn't get it." He told me that I should not judge a person by the color of their skin. Isn't that amazing? Our children are better equipped to teach us about racial harmony than we are at teaching them.
I know that racism exists. I know that some believe it always will. The difference in me today is that I now realize that making general statements regarding one race or the other is singing out in ignorance. Just as there are exceptions to every rule, there are white people who know that their grandpas and great-grands were racists. They are willing to walk away from their family rather than give in to this injustice. For one to do that, they must be pure at heart, or at least have a strong belief in right vs. wrong.
Kamikaze's column begged me to face myself. It asked me to redirect my entire mindset to determine what my soul deemed fair and equal. I had to analyze my truths, to evaluate my father's actions instead of his words. When I did that, I realized that my father was even more amazing than the "amazing" tag I had given him. Because of his self–awareness, he "knew" his time with me would be short; he was aware that his work would go unfinished. He knew it would become my challenge to continue his work.
I couldn't have been effective at doing this by continuing to display the same attitudes as the racist whites I had come to despise. I had to appreciate the struggle from the other side. I had to learn how to deal with white people all over again. I had to learn to give respect in order to receive it.
When my father named me, he announced my destiny: Help people walk with dignity. I can now accept my role in the evolution of a non-racist society. All people deserve to be treated with dignity, just because they breathe. That's all. Nothing more. If the path is clear, then the journey will proceed. Hopefully, now, I can add a ray of light to that path. Through raising awareness and making a united stand, this path seems obtainable to me. We've got to learn to be brothers and sisters regardless of our skin color. I am dedicated to help all who seek it find their own "voyage to Mecca."
Peace and power.
Previous Commentsshow
What's this?More like this story
More stories by this author
Support our reporting -- Follow the MFP.
Comments
Use the comment form below to begin a discussion about this content.