What's Blackness, Anyway?
2/19/03
By Jimi Izrael
Courtesy of africana.com
It's Black History Month, so I suppose my column is supposed to be blacker than usual. I have to be writing with a mind to being as black as possible, I guess. But as I look at the television, listen to the radio and log on to the internet, I can't help but wonder: what does it mean to be black?
The ubiquity of today's media and our presence there as reluctant pop-cultural touchstones has reduced blackness to "niggerdom:" a sum of hard-knock experiences, marches and hep clothing. Meanwhile, anyone who has experienced some form of agenda comes roaring back with a quasi-political agenda to brand themselves as "niggers" and access the black political machine (or at least hitchhike on well-trod black political narratives). Gays and lesbians, feminists, communist, the Arabs and the Jews have all claimed "nigger" status at one point or another, believing discrimination or poverty, in and of themselves, bind us together in a noble struggle against the white man.
Note to downtrodden whites and others: hardship, poverty or proximity does not give you black membership. And calling yourselves any manner of "nigger" is not only ignorant but insulting. Other minorities only want to be niggers for as long as it takes to cop a photo op with the Rev. Al Sharpton, and poor, ignorant whites aren't niggers either — they're typically called "white trash." What are the criteria for the "white trash" label? Let me break it down.
You only need 500 or so privilege points to live the American Dream, and white people are born with 1,000 points — I mean, they slide right out the cooch with 'em. Black folks are born with a negative 1,500 points — we're born meeting the description of every would-be felon or welfare case before we utter a sound, and have to prove our innocence and job qualifications from the first breath to our last. Black people spend their whole lives trying to work up to zero and feel fortunate to die with two or three points. White people spend their lives acquiring points for themselves and their progeny, so they never have to see a person of color.
"White Trash" are those honkems who, even with instant access to the world and all its offerings, squandered those points somewhere along the way. The difference between them and your average hoodrat is that these hillbillies had access to the American dream at one time, and gave it up in favor of embracing an alternative of some sort, or just slipped off the social ladder and never got back up — just laid there drinking Faygo and chewing tobacco for generations.
Upon closer examination, we see clearly that (except for the aforementioned trashy types) whiteness is the key to access, which is the key to power in America. "White" is a noun so proper it rarely needs to be said. It's assumed. But when you tell someone you're black, what are you telling them?
African Americans have been called many things, but few names of our own choosing. But in the '60s, when the term "black" came into vogue, there was no mistaking the definition: Black was proud, and it was beautiful. Black was rebellious and demanding. It was a stern face framed in sunglasses and an Afro, horn-rimmed glasses and a tailored suit, tapping its watch with a forefinger that declared time has come. It wasn't any variety of coon or jigaboo, nor a kindly colored minstrel, cook or well meaning noble savage of Hollywood lore. Black was real. Blackness was the movement from sheltered adolescence to the maturation of a people: slumberous eyes irritated, agitated and activated by the shock on enlightenment. Black said, "I AM A MAN," and that wasn't all he wrote. Sure, the dictionary points to nary a positive connotation, but so damn what? As with "nigger," we've paid in blood to define black by any means we feel relevant, and therein lies the problem. Because for some, "black" is relative.
Some of us think money and success trump skin color, only to find out the hard way that while you are able to lose, misplace or imagine your blackness away, society is not. Long before you whip out your wallet, people see your blackness. And if you whip out that wad too fast, the cops may remind you just how black you are.
Sure, there are those who upgrade or Super-Size their blackness by spouting half-baked militant rhetoric they pick up on the back of a bean-pie wrapper. Or buying a set of all-black clothes, yelling loud about "killing whitey," calling out the "Uncle Toms" who aren't down for the hype. These cats are dealing in the politics of emotion and don't have a bus pass between them, let alone any concrete ideas that don't involve marching, getting shot or both. Waiting around for the one great leader has sparked a lot of T-shirts but not much change.
One thing I know about being black: it's less about talk than action. While we don't all have to be on the same page, it would be behoove us to be in the same book. Some cats would rather pontificate than activate, and that's their prerogative. There is no arbiter of blackness and thank God for that, because it is so much to so many and not enough to some, and our diverse experiences give us survival skills other communities don't have. But what does it mean to be black anymore? I asked a few people and got some thoughtful answers.
"I've been laughed at for calling myself black," one of my light-skinned friends responded. "I've been asked to recount my family tree from Eve upon calling myself 'black.' While discussing my fair skin and Louisiana roots, a co-worker once inquired, 'When do you get to stop saying you're [black]? He asked the question so innocently that I had to pause."
It's easy to ask black folks about blackness, but have you ever asked white folks what they think it means to be black? A recent acquaintance of mine, a white dude from the left coast, has some interesting observations.
"The concept of blackness still seems completely over-determined in our society," he says. "Black is the prefix to every station in life: black doctor, black lawyer. This is not entirely unrelated to the oft-repeated line, 'He's a real credit to his race!' I think that idea hasn't entirely disappeared."
One of my white female friends deconstructs the question from its base. "'Black' is a social convention, in some ways like 'Jewish' was in Europe a couple of generations ago," she asserts. "'Black' is a label imposed by society as a whole that holds individuals so labeled to certain stereotypes, prejudices, social barriers and statistical likelihoods." That may function well as a anthropological definition, but what does it mean to BE black?
"My concept of being black," says a close white friend of mine, "is that it likely means that time and time and time again, you have to get past a less than welcome reception from whites who happen to be the powerful ones to a large degree, the people that can mess with you or make you. Now that would be damn annoying to face every day." Do tell.
So what does it mean to be black in America? Well, I don't know what it means. I know it isn't me waiting for the white man to catch a conscience and offer me a leg up. I live life in this skin, struggling without becoming consumed by the struggle. I am the master of my destiny, determined to succeed without any excuses or pardons for poor performance. Life gets hard and there are failures to be sure, but every sunrise starts a new day. And every morning on the way to work, I greet the day fortified and empowered: Good Morning, America.
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About the Author
jimi izrael is an opinion writer and journalist based in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. He can be contacted at jimiizrael@hotmail.com.
Copyright (c) 2003 Africana.com. All Rights Reserved.
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