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I am a Black Man
Wait, I’m a Black man? I’m also a White man. A mixed-bodied human, the complexities of such are unspeakable. Hypodescent, If I were subject to the “one-drop rule”, I’m Black.
If I lean strongly enough into my White roots maybe they won’t notice. They might say, “you’re not like the others, not truly Black.” Then, they would accept me. If I didn’t express any of the Black qualities. If I silenced and stored those pieces of me away, then they might value me.
Will my Black roots shake their head at my distance? Will they see the sacrifice I make and not shame me for it? Is this betrayal? Will they still accept me?
I thought I might have a greater opportunity of survival, maybe live in less fear, if I leaned harder into my White roots. Perhaps live without the pain of racism, rejection, manipulation, marginalization, and not being seen as fully human. Worth a shot.
The crazy thing is that it worked up until this point. But something has always been missing. Suppressed, silenced, and unwanted Blackness remained under the surface and beneath it the pain, fear, and absolute rage of being denied my human rights.
The Black side of me has long been looking to expose itself. My bones hurt. My ancestors in there causing a ruckus. They want to be free. That’s where the existential fear lies, too. I listen to this place as it asks, “Is it safe enough to come out?”
Ignoring my quaking bones and leaning into my whiteness helped me earn safety, approval, and personal development – to be seen, heard, felt, and even successful. It’s been a lonely road, though. To show up in spaces that many of my brothers would not dare to enter. I have commonly been the only Black man.
This has worked but it can’t take me any farther. The truth is, my soul wants to live through this Black body. I’ve denied my soul by denying my Blackness. I’ve denied the immense pain, but also the pleasure of living in a Black body.
I have lived unconsciously thinking, “it would be better to have a white body.” Although this is not a false statement, regarding the structures in our society, it dismisses the power and gifts passed to me through my African heritage.
I am an Angry Black Man
Would I dare to express my anger? Existential terror arises when I even think about the possibility. I’ve cut myself off from this power source. When I don’t express it, I hand over my power to the people outside of me.
“Will they still love me when I’m angry?” I ask myself in fear. The fragility of the white body creates a fear of mine. There’s no space for my anger. I‘m seen as too much, scary, indecent, improper, misplaced, and unsophisticated when it comes up. Seeing the Black body this way misses the chance to witness what our anger is communicating.
With no outlet or witness, it starts to cook inside our bodies, ending up being expressed in harmful ways. Then people think, “you see that’s why Black bodies are scary.” But what was unseen was the agony of being depreciated, silenced, and thrown into the bad corners of the world to let our wounds fester together.
What is the anger? Clarity. Love. Passion. Pain. Grief. Won’t you see me? Deny my anger, deny my love. The depths of my love are unfathomable and timeless, gifts from what my forefathers had to encounter. Subject to the most wretched and horrendous shadows of man, they could only live through an unnoticeable, yet, burning love. Now, it’s our boon.
Although my anger points directly to the marginalization I face, they don’t see it. They overstep my boundaries to input what feels good for them, missing an opportunity to receive me in intimacy. They lose out on the love.
They dismiss my anger because they fear the walls it will tear down. The facade that everything is alright. So it seems to them that what they know is something I have overlooked. Then I get played like a child who is no longer capable of containing his own process. Maybe well-intentioned, but disempowering.
My anger hits numbness, then there’s a distance between us, and I’m left to pick up the pieces alone. The anger is directed inward and held. Self-criticism, guilt, shame, insecurity, unease, anxiety, and depression, draw the victim of marginalization to their knees. What was once clarity is now an inferiority complex.
I am an Ashamed Black Man
I’m left with not only feeling inferior but also the shame, grief, and fear that the fragile White body cannot take responsibility for. I question, “Am I crazy?”, believing it’s my problem. “Maybe something is wrong with me, maybe they’re right.” What came from clarity is deflected back into my lap unrecognized. Now what?
I’ve tried to take my place here. My father tried, my grandparents tried, and their parents all tried to take up the space that was rightfully theirs. Through all the humiliation, remorse, and confusion of not being given the space that is our birthright, we stand here. I stand here as a living expression of my ancestors and they beckon me to keep trying.
This will not disappear. Generation after generation we will continue to feel the aftershocks. By none other than God’s permission are we entitled to breathe, move, and live freely in this world.
Reality has it different, though. We have yet to correct this ethical misstep. A major part of our next evolutionary step that we so often miss. There is no transcendence without righting the wrongs of our ancestors. And if we bypass this, we’ll continue to destroy ourselves.
Those in Black bodies have long tried to end what is not ours to end alone. We need help. We keep asking and hitting a wall of silence. Anger, a cry for help? How does this change the perspective? If we see the touching vulnerability in the dare to ask. Maybe anger is the only way you can hear me.
I am a Sad Black Man
I’m sad that many will think that this is an antagonistic or even aggressive letter directed at White bodies.
That’s part of the problem. We take these things as a personal attack, rather than an old voice speaking through the wavelengths of today. A pointer towards raising the collective consciousness. Black bodies are so privy to these echoes of the past because they had to endure.
Today, however, those silent voices can be loud. How long was it that Black people had no say in the matter? You think all those muted voices of rage and grief would just dissipate? Oh no, they’ve been lurking in the shadows for the right time and space to come up.
I’m sad that I have to get really angry for you to notice that something is not working for me. I’m sad it’s never enough. Until it’s too much. I’m sad about the missed opportunities. Sad that my anger is so often diffused by the power and overstepping of the White voice. Sad that it’s forgotten so quickly. Sad that this cycle keeps happening.
I give a chance to my ancestors who can now speak, once unforbidden words, through me. The wounds are still fresh in their eyes and they call us.
I am a Joyful Black Man
My ancestors can also laugh and dance through me. They’ve got a lot of that to do. That heartbreaking joy.
This is my natural state. “Can I really be that joyous?” I say looking over my shoulders as if I need permission. Learning to express my joy has become a form of resistance. The Black body can overcome the silencing we have and continue to experience by expressing this natural exuberance.
We have, fortunately, been born in a time where we can express ourselves in ways that were once dreams for people like us. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, though. I still have to overcome the terror that taking up space precipitates. When I allow myself it feels so healing.
As James Baldwin said, “Our crown has already been bought and paid for. All we have to do is wear it.” Black joy is wearing the crown. Owning our right to be here.
I say all this seeing that Black history is not far behind us, but right here. It speaks through in all these different ways, desiring to be seen, heard, felt, and witnessed. The beauty of Blackness has yet to be fully acknowledged by our society.
Let us not forget that we are the ones who have given meaning to color or race, it doesn’t have meaning on its own. Our collective mind has created the social construct from which all of these painful experiences emanate. Therefore, it is urgent that we create a new meaning for ourselves. We can only do so honestly and thoroughly by restoring the past, together.
This means going into our biology, feeling the transgressions, and introducing a new choice. It’s not enough that we have meetings about it, give or receive apologies, or intellectually understand what racism is. This stuff is in our bodies. It’s subtle. Until we have the right spaces, support, and courage to feel such we will find ourselves returning to the same places over and over.
This is one way we can take care of the planet. I hope that these words touch you in ways that will support your personal restoration in this collective process.