I’m American and I’m Black: Both Make Me, Me.
Today is July 23rd: We look around and see the momentum of back to school ads ramping up, the summer sun continues to scorch us to a crisp (at least in the South, that is), and the final memories of summer break are being soaked in, by the sponges called students, before their studies resume. July, my birth month, is reaching its conclusion after a month that can be understated as intense: 84 people were killed in a truck attack in Nice on July 14th, 77 Syrian individuals were mistakenly killed by a US-led coalition air strike, after being mistaken for ISIS fighters. Military Coups left the Turkish government in disarray and most recently, many were injured in multiple shootings in Munich, Germany. These situations have left the globe traumatized and emotional, exhausted from the constant state of grief we’ve become accustomed to.
Unfortunately, for America, this level of disturbance has only been exacerbated. On July 4th The United States celebrated 240 years, since the signing of the Declaration of Independence: an occasion worthy of enthusiasm. On July 5th Alton Sterling, an unarmed African American male was killed by police officers in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. The official explanation from the police officers: Inability to restrain Mr.Sterling, prompting necessary use of deadly force, in effort to assure the officers would not lose their life. A video surfaced quickly, though, seemingly discounting the officers narrative. On July 6th Philando Castile, an African American male was killed in front of his 4 year old daughter and partner, in the neighborhood of Falcon Heights, Minnesota, by police officers. Disturbingly, this incident was captured on a Facebook live recording, by Castile’s girlfriend, out of concern for her partners safety. The officers cites that he feared Castile carried a gun, which he believed he intended to use to harm the officer, when he reached in his pants for his wallet. Castile did indeed have a firearm, yet he was legal authorized to carry such and made the officer aware immediately, as evident by the Facebook video. On July 7th, 11 officers were shot in Dallas, 5 fatally, in a the deadliest day for law enforcement since 9/11.
A celebratory week of America’s excellence was inhibited, as these situations pointed to the underlying issues, which continue to render our nation problematic. Both situations have reignited a recurring (and necessary) conversation, regarding the issue of police brutality in America and the disproportionate way in which it affects people of color, black people in particular, due to systemically constructed racial parameters, which make African Americans the target of police mistreatment. Organization such as the NAACP, #BlackLivesMatter, SCLC, and newly emerging organizations in municipalities, such as AtlIsReady and StandUp, have banded together to drive these conversations in order to change dialogue to tangible solutions. From planning the largest non-violent march since Dr. King, in the city of Atlanta (which I happily attended), to setting up one on one meetings with government and community leaders, I’ve witnessed and proudly been apart of one of the most productive summers in taking steps to find resolve, that I have ever observed.
With this, however, has come a criticism that I have constantly come across, yet I find deeply offensive. As I’ve scrolled through social media feeds, from white and black people alike, I’ve seen the charge that’s best simplified as them saying I must choose between Black or America: There is no in between. There are those who know me, who understand why I don’t take this lightly: I am proudly patriotic. I love America: It’s my home. That being said, however, I am quick to criticize its imperfections, shortcomings, and failures, in order to assist in rectifying those issues, to make the country better. I also am black and that too I love. That being the case, I understand that many of America’s failures hinge on the mistreatment of people who look like me. Needless to say, reconciling these two identities seems complicated, and at times it is, but nevertheless I am a composite of these identities and it’s important that people respect and understand that.
I’m American: Archaeology suggests that the first Native Americans crossed into the Americas, around 13,000 years ago. That’s where my story on the North American continent begins, with my indigenous ancestors (http://theconversation.com/first-americans-lived-on-land-bridge-for-thousands-of-years-genetics-study-suggests-23747). My existence as a son of the current state of America we understand, spearheaded by “Western” idoelogy, begins in the year 1607 with the establishment of the Jamestown colony. Here, colonists from the British Isles flocked to the Eastern seaboard of North America. On board such ships were a class of indentured servants, made up largely of women, from Scotland in particular. In 1619 the first enslaved Africans would arrive in the colonies: ripped from their homelands and implanted into a foreign civilization, by force. One of these enslaved Africans and indentured servant women would join in unison, resulting in lines of Free People of Color and commencing my earliest traceable ancestry, in the American colonies.
This path is not my only one, however. From the trees of the Virginian Randolphs to enslaved people arriving later, my blood tells a story of complexity. Since then the participation of my family in American history, has been integral. My family has served militarily since its establishment, relatives of signed the Declaration, and through other means of participation, my family has assisted in the creation of this nation. This nation is built on the very backs of my ancestors: its the result of all of their hard work. Thus, when confronted with the notion that I must abandon my American identity, I’m baffled. When people look at me weirdly for recognizing, appreciating, or taking pride in my American history, it’s a little upsetting. Memes and photos swamp the internet of black people being shamed for participating or engaging in some form of American nationalism, saying that they “dont know their history”: crazy thing is, this is their history. To say otherwise, is completely out of line.
I’m Black: My skin is heavily pigmented. Melanin radiates as the Sun shines it’s beams onto my brown skin, gifting nothing but magic off the wrap of color, that holds my soul. It is something in which I take large amounts of pride, smiling as a look in the mirror and indulge in the features place upon me, as a result. With this, however, is the harsh realization that all of the world doesn’t see me in that manner: My home country doesn’t always see me in that manner. In fact, it is the undisputed truth that because of the color of my skin, there are those who feel me inferior and less American than themselves. It is fact that my home country, at its founding and ratification of its Constitution, felt people like me to fit into this mold of inferiority: clauses existing which defines those who look like me as only 3/5 of a person. Systems have long been established which capitalize on the act of keeping me and those who look like me in a position of second class citizenry, in order to promote the unfair elevation of those who bare whiter skin. Let’s not swept that under the rug: lets come to terms with the fact that I, an individual whose ancestors created this land, am forced to exist in a state of subordination due to the inadequate and idiotic believes of those whose ancestors arrived here in large mass, at the turn of the 20th century. The struggle i must face as a result of my color is, as I stated in another one of my writings, “being treated like a bastard child, by the country that I come from”. Despite the constant push for me to abandon my blackness in effort to fit into a box, which says that Eurocentricity is the epitome of all things American, I find strength in this cocoon of color I call my own. I pull at the hands of those who came before me, elevating me out of darkness into the sky. It is here that I can see and continue moving in a direction, where my blackness is not seen as me removing my ties to America. My stating of #BlackLivesMatter , shouldn’t make others believe that I’m saying that other lives in America dont matter. That’s crazy talk.
It’s All Me: There’s no way for me to separate one from the other, because in the end, it all makes me who I am. Studying my history for me, means understanding both of these parts of me equally. My history is tied to America: It is through the establishment of this country, that the admixture of ancestry which flows through my veins, was created. It was on this soil that my family, emerged. My history is black: The struggle of those who resist the ideologies, which focuses on the oppression of people of darker skin, is one that has created me today. It is a struggle I know all too well, and it is one continuing. The identity of the African American is complex, so its key to avoid oversimplification. Existing in a world where you’re unappreciated, is in itself difficult: Being subjected to revisionist opinions on your history, only adds an extra layer of frustration. We are black. We are American. We are who we are and that needs to be understood, respected, and recognized.
