Since there is no way that I can truly come to an understanding of where my racist ideologies morphed itself into a malignant growth, that stood there until it was confronted, I will recollect my fondest and most vivid memories to find some answers.
From a very tender age, I was obsessed with dolls—I loved combing their long flowing hair; I loved dressing them up and pretending to go shopping; I loved having love affairs with Ken and switching professions with Barbie. I was a veterinarian, pediatrician, model, actress, ballet dancer, mother and “fashionista”—I was Barbie. But would I be given the chance to become any of these things in the real world? I thought so… after all, whatever Barbie could do, I believed that I too could. Somehow, I could not understand that my colour would act as an impediment in becoming most of what I wanted to be. I didn’t understand how the world worked yet, and even before I did, I had a distorted and dysfunctional view of what it looked like.
I also remember, that in these very juvenescent years, I was lovestruck with the thought of having children. Somehow, I had already pictured what they would all look like and they did not look like me. They did not look like the countenance that my mother always starred at and chanted “ you are beautiful, my angel, so precious.” Where did these images come from and why did I desire to have these things or want these types of children? Where did this nebulous dichotomy of “pretty and fair” and “other and ugly” come from? I did not know that this would mean that I hated who I was. And that cancerous cell continued to grow…
So many things happened in the in betweens. I went to many places, spoke to many people, took many classes, read books, dated and as I started to understand my world and the prisms through which I viewed it— the growth became known and with every lesson learned, with the dimensions of this brain forever stretching… I came to confront that growth and chip away what was there. The racist images that were filled with hate for myself and “othered” peoples all began to melt away—this growth had taken away all senses necessary for living from the beginning—since I was too young to understand them. I thank God that besides external forces, I had a family filled with “othered” people and a support system who praises “othereness.”
I’ve come a long way. I can stand and confidently say that I can see the beauty in any life form and this to me is a blessing from a creator who is good and has made all things good. As a result, my understanding of “Black” is not what is portrayed and spread through the world via media giants. Although I try not to categorize life, people and things by placing limits on them, I identify myself as a Black person—as problematic as it may seem.
“Black” to me is a vast category with many divergent definitions. As time and place changes, its meaning transforms also. For this reason, I do not look down on how other people interpret it, but instead implore them to try to discover why they believe what they do and if its root is faulty they should shed some light on this and transform their thinking.
To me, Black does not necessarily mean the connection to one race solely. Furthermore, being Black does not mean that you are solely or solely acknowledging being of partial or full African heritage. Black to me is mostly an attitude. Many try to connect the ghetto way of life and use this image as something synonymous to blackness. In that same breath, this “Black” attitude is what people who were movers and shakers of our world that we put the spot light on every February, exuded. What people fail to realize is that we all contribute to our image. With that said how have you contributed my brother, and you my sister? How do you add or subtract from the Black voice or the Black attitude?
Being Black to me does not take away from any other ancestory that makes me …me, nor does it mean connecting myself to inferiority. Being Black to me is not accepting what the oppressor has deemed me as—it is the reverse, it is taking back what was stolen and refining it. Being Black to me is being beautiful, powerful, strong, a fighter, a lover, a leader, an intellectual, being who I am and loving who I am…it means being human. My Black is ambiguous, like the name Blake – and it shows just how stupid it is to truly see a multi dimensional entity through a one dimensional prism.
I embrace my baby—Blake, I cherish him for who he is. This baby has replaced that tumor that proved to be detrimental to me and to “othered” peoples everywhere who believe that they have to think, look, speak and feel differently to be “superior”, accepted and better. I cherish my blessing, that is, my vision; I cherish the people who have helped me thus far in shattering fallacies and ridding myself of this growth; they have all helped birth this baby… my beautiful baby… Blake.
Speak the truth and accept the truth in love
