It’s been a disturbing month of events. America…..home of the brave and land of the free. Yes, the land of the free. The “free to be me because I AM free indeed.” Not just in Christ, or because of our soldiers,but we live in a land that tells us, “You can be anything you want to be. Anything you can dream, you can do it.” Men identifying as women. Women identifying as men. Now…white identifying as black.
1 Corinthians 10:23 says, ” ‘I have the right to do anything,’ you say–but not everything is beneficial. ‘I have the right to do anything’–but not everything is constructive.” Just because I feel like doing something, does not mean that it’s right. But in America, maybe other places too, this has been tossed out. “It’s all about what makes you happy,” but no matter what or who people identify as, there will always be a reminder that we are NOT what we FEEL. You cannot create an identity and expect to be 100% authentic.
For instance, identifying as a woman is more than physical appearance and a higher pitched voice. It’s more than a snap in the fingers and rolling of the neck. Identifying as black is more than having a darker skin tone. It’s more than having an experience for a year and thinking it’s about survival. Identifying with the culture is more than learning the dance moves and speaking broken English. It’s easy to look at something with envy and wish we had something that we do not own. A created lifestyle is just a live character acting out scenes of the play. That doesn’t make it real.
Growing up, I heard those lines, “Be who you want to be.” But, depending on which family member you spoke to it wasn’t true for the African American….Black person. It was said/known that you have to work twice as hard and become “bilingual” (speaking appropriately for both black and white cultures). In my experience of being born a black baby, who then developed into a little black girl, who then developed into a black woman, there was always an identity issue. Don’t get me wrong. I knew exactly who I was and what was expected of me. Being that little black girl among the white girls I knew I was different. The function of my body was the same; the monthly cycle, changes in smell, introduction to functions of my God given parts…yet different.
Let’s talk about it. I may not have had the kinkiest hair but I know what it’s like to have “Blue Magic” dripping from my scalp in the appearance of sweat onto my forehead. I still feel the infamous burns on the tips of my ears and neck. I hear the sizzle of burning grease as the curls and knots in my hair were straightened. Two pig tails or braids seemed to be the style and the only way to get long hair was not naturally my own. I know what it is like to walk home from school and be called the “N” word as white men drive by in pick up trucks. My eyes were darker, my body type…a bit curvier, oh and the attitude was much more than the tone in my voice.
Different, yet an outcast. So different that if I spoke grammatically correct, I was a “white girl.” So now what mattered is not what I appeared to be, but what came out of my mouth. So, black people are not worthy enough to be intelligent? We have to be ignorant and continue to be less than human. Poems and stories by Maya Angelou, Phillis Wheatley, Langston Hughes, Toni Morrison, Gwendolyn Brooks and many others would inspire us to embrace what our ancestors passed down….integrity and the confidence in what comes in being African American….Black….despite what they unwillingly and painfully endured.
From the beginning of time, we have been taught what to think of ourselves. Even today, we see it in commercials. The portrayal of a black person is usually the crazy haired person yet still light enough to be accepted by the mainstream individual. It’s been portrayed that the darker you are, the more unattractive you are. So many girls “do what they need to do” to be accepted in this world, on top of unfortunate life circumstances that come from ancestors who don’t know who or what to identify themselves with or we simply didn’t listen. They will never understand the power of movements such as The Harlem Renaissance and The Civil Rights Movement or songs like “How I Got Over.” The little black girl is still searching.
America….home of the brave and land of the free. Freedom. Free to be who we want to be. But for the little black girl, she will be different. She will be called names. She will sometimes crave “The Bluest Eye.” She may ask the tough questions. She will have to be surrounded by her ancestors to teach her that her body, mind and soul is the rhythm that keeps the land moving. It is through her passion that she can carry the world and yet still find time to minister to her young. It is through her love for God that she can cry for her community and yet give praise to Jesus Christ for how far we have come.
Being a woman and being an African American…..Black woman is more than a lifestyle. The very essence of a woman or a man (regardless of race) cannot be imitated. The very essence of a race cannot be imitated. It can all be learned; like a movie script. But like all movies, they come to an end.
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