personal history

Blackness Is A Curse

The details and symbols of your life have been deliberately constructed to make you believe what white people say about you. Please try to remember that what they believe, as well as what they do and cause you to endure, does not testify to your inferiority but to their inhumanity and fear.” – James Baldwin

In November of 2021 10-year-old Isabella Faith Tichenor, a Black middle schooler enrolled in the Davis school district, in Salt Lake City, Utah, took her own life after repeated racial harassment by her classmates. Davis schools, have a history of documented discriminatory practice. The most recent being called out in a Justice Department report in October of the same year. Yet nothing was done. No effort was made to address the concerns of her family and other black families in the district.

Because too many white people still believe that blackness is a curse.

I remember being told this in grade school by a white teacher. He didn’t necessarily support it, but he offered that there was a theory that blackness was “The Mark of Cain”. All of this ignores what we knew even then from the fossil record about human origins, but let’s just stay with the theological/literary aspects of the discussion for the moment.

I don’t recall mentioning it to my parents, or if I did, what they said.

Frankly, I don’t remember much of a fuss. I’d internalized so much anti-black orthodoxy by that age, it was just another data point.

But I was also a kid that did the reading. Genesis 4:14-15 reads:
“But the Lord said to him, “Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over.” Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.”

I suggested later to this same teacher that blackness wasn’t a curse, but a warning against harm to Cain and his descendants. If this was true, what were we to make of slavery? To his credit, he allowed that America might be in trouble.

There have been some well-meaning white people who, through the years, have attempted to dispel my characterization of the “cursedness” of my skin tone. This is a mistake, because they are operating from the premise that I want to be like them or that I’m “just as good as them” or that my skin color is “equal” to theirs.

As if whiteness is the gold standard.

They are making the same mistake as my aforementioned schoolteacher. Whatever “curse” mentioned in the story of Cain had nothing to do with his appearance, rather it was on those that would do him harm. So it is with the curse of American Blackness. It has nothing to do with me or anyone who looks like me. Rather it is the sense of false superiority that white people hold over me and, most importantly, the way the embrace of white supremacy dehumanizes them to the point that white children could torment a Black child into committing suicide with the apparent tacit approval of all of the adults in their lives.

The curse of blackness does infinitely more harm to white people than it does to Black people.

Link to 2021 article:
Family mourns loss of 10-year-old Utah girl who died following reported bullying https://kutv.com/amp/news/local/family-mourns-loss-of-1

American “Gulags” Are Nothing New

The “fascism” that many are finally seeing first hand has been apparent to a lot of us for quite some time. My grandmother used to offer water to “road gang” convicts repairing the road in front of our family farm. I remember “helping” her deliver water (I carried the dipper) to those men (though she often cautioned me to “not get too close”). I remember the smell of the tar they laid on the road and the sweat pouring off them and the gratitude in their eyes.

For a long time, like a lot of people, I assumed that they “deserved” the punishment they were getting when oftentimes their only “offense” was “not having a job”.

We’ve had “gulags” for a minute, y’all.

“Convict leasing was a system of forced penal labor that was practiced historically in the Southern United States before it was formally abolished during the 20th century. Under this system, private individuals and corporations could lease labor from the state in the form of prisoners, nearly all of whom were Black. Prisoners today produce products that have been bought by companies like McDonald’s, Walmart and Cargill.”

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Penal_labor_in_the_United_States#:~:text=States%20leased%20out%20convicts%20to,labor%20with%20very%20little%20oversight.

Public

Nah, I’m Good

While I hear that generally he’s as popular as ever with the faithful, I’m relieved to hear that many of the people who voted for the current Chief Executive are “coming around” now that they are actually experiencing actual harm from his policies.

However, I find little motivation to “join with” or “welcome” them. Not out of spite or any desire for “revenge” (as I heard one progressive writer blithely put it).

Who am I to judge? I’ve got my own shortcomings to answer for.

Rather, I was never “in community” with these folks, especially the truly MAGA faithful, to begin with. Personally, I often find myself on the outside looking in no matter what space I find myself in. Beside the fact that I’m currently “living Black” in an overwhelmingly white, conservative community, I generally don’t trust the logic of crowds, I ask too many questions, and frankly, I live in my own head a lot. So I’m always a bit detached. Awkward really.

I have to be on guard against the temptation toward snobbery because of it. Awkwardness can often lead to elitism if left unattended.

Regardless, I feel no kinship with, or any desire for same, with any current or former supporters of the current Chief Executive. I certainly am willing to work in tandem with the like minded against a common threat and to support vulnerable communities (no matter the political bent).

But let’s leave it at that. Perhaps an unnecessary distinction but it’s one I require. And there is precedent: https://www.pbs.org/independentlens/documentaries/the-first-rainbow-coalition/

Compared To What…

When I was in college 100 years ago I learned that while there were objective measures of art, for instance, line, color usage, brush strokes, harmonic progression, etc, art is best judged on how effective it is rather than if “I like it” or even “get it.”

That effective art resonates. That it speaks to the layers of the human condition.

Furthermore, we bring our own perspectives to art and that our perspectives change over time. For example, when I was growing up, my dad wore the groove out of “Compared To What” by Les McCann & Ed Harris. It did not move me back then. Probably scared me a little. But now, with 6 decades behind me, it’s my “Hallelujah Chorus.”

What Lamar left us with Sunday night was art. There were layers upon layers.

Snippet

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us” – Ephesian 3:20

There is a section in the 20th verse of the 3rd chapter of Ephesians where the writer references the power of God “that is at work within us”.

I find that verse intimidating because much of the time I don’t feel very “powerful.” In engineering school I learned that power is “the capacity to do work”; the equation being power = work/time. Do a little algebra and we find that work = power/time which implies that a large amount of work can be generated by a powerful motor over a short period of time or by a small motor over a long period of time.

Therein in lies my problem: time.

I used to believe that my issue with this scripture is laziness (and I am lazy) but that’s not the root of it. Rather it’s the worry that I won’t have the time to complete the work I have before me. Which is wholly ridiculous when you think about it. We’re all time limited. We’re all on the clock and it’s going to run out for us all at one point or another.

Earlier this week, a college friend died of a burst aneurysm. He was around my age, late 50’s/early 60’s. Right now, one of my mother’s oldest friends is making her transition after just having turned 101 on the 11th. I’m sure they both would rather be here. I know that they made the best of their time based on the testimonials of friends and family and my own personal experience with them.

There is another scripture that says “Teach us to number our days, that we might incline our hearts to wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12 – which, loosely translated, says (to me, anyway) that rather than fretting over death, we should keep it ever before us as a reminder to stay on task. Or as one of my great-uncles used to say, “I intend to wear out, not rust out.”

Or finally, as Toni Morrison said, “We are already born, we are going to die, so you have to do something interesting, that you respect in between.”

An Ecclesiastical Frame of Mind

“The sun rises and the sun sets,
    and hurries back to where it rises.
6 The wind blows to the south
    and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
    ever returning on its course.
7 All streams flow into the sea,
    yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
    there they return again.
8 All things are wearisome,
    more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
    nor the ear its fill of hearing.” Ecclesiastes 1:5-8

Having yet to catch my breath from the current year, I can hardly look forward to a new one. But isn’t that kind of the point? Life moves on whether we’re ready for what comes or not, whether we want what it brings or not.

And I’m learning that “wanting” anything in terms of the outcomes of my living to be a pointless exercise. It’s akin to a leaf in a hurricane expecting to “get somewhere”, just tossed about aimlessly, spinning about comically with no defined path.

Better to adopt the pose of the surfer. Wait on the next wave and ride it for as long as I can. Enjoy it for as long as I can knowing that I will fall – often awkwardly and foolishly – until the last wave comes.

And knowing that I won’t be ready to stop.

Aunt Lois

Aunt Lois once told me of the time several spotted goats appeared on the family homestead out of nowhere during a storm. Her dad, my great grandfather, made inquiries throughout the community for several weeks but no one ever claimed them. She gently, but firmly, scoffed at my suggestion that perhaps it was some type of sign that our family was somehow “set apart” in the same manner as done in scripture (in the story of Jacob I believe).

On another occasion, when she caught me bragging on her carport about my impending baptism to some friends, Aunt Lois called me inside and cautioned, “Son you can go in that water a dry devil and come out a wet one. It’s just tap water. What matters is your commitment and growth.”

Finally, upon learning of  a betrayal by a girlfriend whom she never really cared for, Aunt Lois said, “You can set your best linen and silverware, light your finest dinner candles, and then take out your most prized crystal bowl and go out into the yard and fill it with chicken shit. When you sit back down at your finely set table and put that first forkful into your mouth it will not miraculously change to chicken salad.”

Do you sense a pattern? 

Which is not to say that Aunt Lois wasn’t filled with a sense of wonder. It’s just that she reserved it for important things; like an exceptional sunset or the satisfaction of a good day’s labor and the laughter of friends.

FEAR OF A BLACK PARENT

We spend a lot of time afraid. Catch any local news broadcast and you will run the risk of fear dominating your life. When I was a child, I regularly imagined that my mother was abandoning me when she went off to work. She, and most of the women in my family, were my refuge. For I was often afraid of the men in my family. Which, I think, they rather preferred.

Black men in the 60’s and 70’s had very little agency beyond fear, especially in the South. Fear is what they knew, intimately. It kept them “in their place.” It often kept them alive.

To say that I was afraid of storms wouldn’t be quite right. Because storms didn’t bother me when I was with people. In fact,  in those circumstances, I rather enjoyed them. Which probably means that, at heart, I was afraid of being alone, of (again) abandonment. Similarly with the dark; as long as I was with someone, the dark held little terror.  However, proximity mattered much more in the dark. The closer the better, because if I was alone and others were not nearby in the dark, every fear was magnified. Every little sound brought terror.

As I grew older, I learned to subvert my fear because I realized that other people despised the fearful . Especially the men in my life. Showing fear meant that you were “weak,” and weakness was considered the worst trait of all. But hiding my fear made me into a fraud, because, while pretending to be brave, or at least, uninterested, I disguised the fact that I often felt things deeply.

And then, there was my father. I was certain at times that he didn’t like me. Oh, I’m sure that he “loved” me. I was his. What man doesn’t love what’s his? But I often felt like an interloper around him. Not unwanted, but certainly an inconvenience.

In retrospect, I’ve learned that a lot of what I took as my father’s disregard for me probably originated in illness. Today, he’d likely be diagnosed with sleep apnea. I have it myself and know from personal experience the brain fog and general peevishness that a chronic lack of sleep can cause. And that the energy and incessant curiosity of a small child in perpetual motion will set your nerves on edge.

What do I fear now? Death? Poverty? Disgrace? Obscurity? Surely, all of these at one time or another (and sometimes all together). But I think at the top of the list is that I don’t know myself. I faked it too long. Avoidance becomes reflexive after a while. Anything to avoid being found out, hiding so much that whatever is left of the real “you” gets warped beyond recognition. You can convince yourself of anything if it keeps you from facing yourself. But eventually, the bill comes due. Not that I necessarily pretend any less. But, acknowledging it is a start.

I be strokin’

September was quite a month.

Over the span of two weeks, I had two seizures, or, as they are referred to clinically, “hemorrhagic strokes,” due to a brain bleed.

I don’t like using the “stroke” word. Conjures up bad memories of paralysis and slurred speech and, you know, disability. And we don’t reckon well with disability in our society.

The first occurred on August 28th when I awoke to what I thought were leg cramps, only to realize that something was horribly wrong . The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor beside my bed, my daughter, who was standing nearby, already having called 911. Naturally, I was  disoriented, but we both remained remarkably calm given the circumstances.

My daughter, as many of you know, is an exemplary human being, by the way. She performs exceptionally well under pressure (takes after her mother).

Two EMS techs promptly arrived, took my vitals, and, since the results were basically “normal ”, actually asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. Reckoning (correctly) that I’d just had a seizure, I replied, “of course”. I was even able to walk to the gurney.

Twelve hours at U of M hospital and every scan known to man turned up nothing out of the ordinary, so they eventually released me having informed me that a certain percentage of the population will have a seizure in their lives and never have another. Of course, they advised, managing my weight and blood pressure would probably help prevent recurrence and I promised to “do better”, and put this aberration off to work stress and grieving the loss of my wife in April.

In the second instance, two weeks to the day, on September 11th, I was sitting in my home office when I became light-headed and I noticed tingling in my left foot. My daughter placed a second 911 call. This time, I had to be carried to the gurney and was awake for the onset of the second seizure enroute to U of M.

This I do not recommend.

Another round of scans turned up a brain bleed in the right lower quadrant of my dura. I have learned that the dura is a “thick membrane made of dense irregular connective tissue that surrounds the brain and spinal cord.” The source of the bleed was an “AV Fistula” which is “an irregular connection between an artery and a vein.” Or, as one of the smart people at U of M put it “a really gnarly mass of blood vessels that you were probably born with.” The blood leaked from my dura and made contact with my gray matter, which is never a good thing. 

Note: There is a “blood-brain barrier” for a reason, folks.

Do not cross it.

Now here’s the thing: a lot of people are born with AV Fistulas (or develop them at some point) and live their entire lives knowing nothing about them . A very small percentage of people will have them burst because of unmanaged (or poorly managed) high blood pressure and/or stress.

Of course, I was guilty of the former and living through the latter. Fortunately, the only “damage” resulting from this whole affair is some numbness in my left foot, which has greatly improved over time. But the numbness doesn’t hinder me;  I’ve taken to walking about 4 miles a day for exercise, which has helped me drop about 35 pounds and significantly reduced my blood pressure.

What have I learned?

Well, this whole year has taught me that I have control over nothing, something I knew but now truly understand. However I do have responsibilities; to my faith, my family, my job, and myself, to name a few. I’m no martyr, but I really wasn’t looking after that last item on the list. So I’ve made my health a priority. Otherwise, I really cannot live up to any other responsibilities, can I?

What did I get out of all of this?

Certainly, charity and support from family and extended family. “Extended family” being a wholly strange term that usually applies to friends. We generally think of the concept of extended family as “taking the other in,” of extending familial bonds beyond blood ties. Which, wrongly, makes family exclusive. As if, someone is being “let in” to a select club.

In my case, I see it as the other way around. Others extended themselves for me. It’s hard for us as Americans, and especially for Midwesteners, to accept the kindness of others, because we often labor under the notion that we are undeserving of care, of mercy, and, even of love.

But isn’t that the point of mercy, that it’s “unmerited favor?” You cannot “earn” the love of the people that care for you. “Earned love” is just “payback.” Something transactional and rancid and also, unfortunately, all too American.

Besides, “blood ties” are just a matter of circumstance. The instances of blood relatives who cannot stand each other are as common as water. I’m satisfied  with the family that I picked and that picked me.

September was one for the books, as was the entire year. I’m glad that things are as well as they are. 

The title I picked for this essay is a play on words from the title of an old Clarence Carter song (IYKYK). The carnal implications of Mr. Carter’s lyrics aside, there is also a commitment to stay with it, to keep going. 

To persevere. 

At the end of it all, that’s what I’m left with.

In spite of two successive strokes, perhaps, even because of them, I be strokin’.

I Swanni!

A while ago I learned that many of the idioms that I heard regularly down south in my youth were merely obscure forms of english, even old english (or Olde English, if you please).

Peep the 2nd meaning of the verb form below. I used to hear folks say “I swan…” or “I swanni” (sp) all the time growing up.

I had decided that it was a prudish attempt to avoid saying “I swear”. Because, I reasoned, some folks took the biblical admonition against swearing, or even using the word “swear”, very seriously.

Looks like I had that all wrong.

swan
PRONUNCIATION:
(swan)

MEANING:
noun: 1. Any of various long-necked large waterbirds, usually in white plumage.
2. Someone or something of unusual beauty, grace, purity, etc.

verb intr.: 1. To move about in an idle, aimless way.
2. To declare or to swear.