One of my fondest memories from childhood is Saturday morning cartoons. That was the only time of the week I gladly woke up at 7 a.m. I remember rushing in my pajamas to that big(?) 19” TV to watch Bugs Bunny and Super Friends. Sometimes my mother would sit with me. But I remember not really wanting her watching cartoons with me. Its not that I didn’t enjoy my mother’s company, because I did. But my mother had a way of finding life lessons in everything.
Every time the Roadrunner dropped something on Wile E. Coyote’s head she’d say something like, “that’s why you have to always be aware of where you are, because somebody can drop something on your head.” Poor Daffy Duck. In almost every skit Bugs Bunny would blow him up, throw something in his face, or just make a fool of him. To that, my mother would say, “you have to be careful of your friends, because sometimes they’ll take advantage of you” or “don’t force someone to be your friend.”
That last one really stung. Growing up in the sixties and seventies I always heard my parents emphasize pride and dignity in being a black man. After all, the mantra was “I’m black and I’m proud, so say it loud.” So I grew up understanding that if someone didn’t want to play with me it was time to move on. After all, not everybody will like you. I learned that lesson so well, I remember telling my sons the same thing.
Black History month is supposed to be a recognition and celebration of the accomplishments and contributions of African Americans to this democratic society. But its time to reevaluate why we do this? Of course the accomplishments of the black community should be celebrated every day and every month of every year. Much to the chagrin of white supremacists, this democratic society is the envy of the world because of the contributions of its citizens of color. In 2020, if someone needs proof of this, simply pray for them.
In fact, that’s my point. Carter G. Woodson initiated Negro History Week in the 1920s. The immediate post-WWI years were a time when many black communities were being decimated and returning black servicemen were lynched in uniform. So Woodson wanted to remind this bigoted, ungrateful nation of the contributions of the black community to this society. Its obvious he wanted white America to appreciate and acknowledge the sacrifices of blacks in hopes that they would finally recognized the descendants of slaves as equal citizens.
Nearly 100 years later we celebrate Black History Month, but the objective is still the same: identifying and celebrating the contributions of African Americans in hopes of finally being acknowledged as equal citizens. This is starting to leave an uncomfortable taste in my mouth. It seems as if the black community is still trying to prove itself worthy of citizenship.
I think it’s also time to revisit the so-called accommodationist strategies of Booker T. Washington. In 1895, he pleaded with the black community to “glorify common labor” and that no community is left behind if they have something to contribute. He was later vilified for telling black folks to stop trying to be somewhere you’re not wanted. Washington said blacks didn’t have to live in the same communities as whites, but we did have to work together. In other words, what’s wrong with living in our own communities? Why would you want to live a community that’s openly hostile to your being there? Why go to white schools across town when there’s a black school in your neighborhood?
I know, I know, their schools have better facilities, books and so on. But once upon a time, black teachers educated black students in academics and life. I don’t need a classroom with the latest technologies to teach history. All I need are students who want to learn and we can change the world. Plato taught Aristotle without the internet or power points slides and we still marvel over what they accomplished. I admit, I’m not Plato, but I care about my students’ success as much as he cared about the success of his.
Anyway, I digress.
We just went through the first Black History Month in the first year of the third decade of the twenty-first century. More than that, in a few weeks it’ll be 155 years since the defeat of the traitorous Confederate States of America and the barbarous labor system known as slavery. I know there are still some Confederates today who look at me and don’t see an individual with advanced educational training, but rather a black man who’s not their social equal. You know they’re out there.
So, after 155 years I don’t feel as though the black community has anything left to prove. Period. I enjoy Black History Month because there’s a new generation of children who know little of their past. But the days of trying to prove I belong are over. “I’m Black and I’m proud, so say it loud!”
I’m going to hug my mother the next time I visit her in San Antonio. I need to let her know that I did listen. After all, she was preparing me for a world that would not always be kind to black faces. It’s sad, because I shared those same lessons with my sons, and I’ll share them, God willing, with theirs.
Later.