I’ve mentioned this before, but it still surprises me that the more I read of Black history, Black writers in just about every time period I’ve delved into so far, the more I realize how little things have changed. And, also, how much.
We do, in this year of 2010, have a Black president and first lady, yes. Many- not all – previously closed doors are at least cracked open a little for us to squeeze through if we can. We can, at least on paper, live where we want, eat wherever we wish to sit our butts down and, in general, attempt to live out our lives, our dreams, our realities, just like everyone else.
Yet… we still fight the same stereotypes which have never faded away, repurposed refitted themselves for the current times. We still strive, daily, to change the narrative imposed on our lives, our bodies, our many and varied cultures.
Whether we have fully assimilated into mainstream/white society or have (as completely as possible) rejected doing any such thing, our individuality is still an amorphous entity, a puff of self easily dissipated by a news report of some far off person doing some far out thing who, in the minds of some, somehow immediately becomes you.
I still remember how, after the elections in 2004, a woman who I had spent a couple of years talking with in chat rooms just… shocked me. And that’s not easy to do. We weren’t close friends or anything, mind you, but we did have any number of conversations on gay rights (she was a lesbian) and how to move forward on things such as equal marriage rights and other things. These topics weren’t the whole of our conversations – she was not “the lesbian woman chatter” and I was not “the Black woman chatter”; there were also discussions on business, home life, all around aspects of who we were.
So. The day after the 2004 elections she comes into the chat room and, as soon as I say hello to her, announces that “I guess gays and Blacks are enemies now”.
Huh?
It seems the Black churches in Texas, where she lived, were vociferous in their condemnation of GLBT folk and urged their parishioners to vote “No” on whatever legislation was put forth on the Texas ballot that affected the GLBT community and, for whatever reason, I became a substitute for them in her mind.
Now, I understood, in a way, her hurt and disappointment. I was disappointed, too. I even tried to, in my own mind, use that to excuse her behavior – after all, whatever we do, people of color must make other people comfortable with us. But the more I thought about it, the angrier I got, because really… she had no right to completely jettison *me* – my conversation, my views, my years of human rights work and for fighting, in whatever big or small way I can for equal rights, equal justice for all… and replace me with bunch of bigots, no matter that they shared my skin color. No right at all. And, of course, that was just (on a very small scale) the precursor to the reaction of some – by no means all or maybe even most – to the Prop 8 vote in California in 2008. Which is a whole ‘nother story.
Anyway – back to why I was writing this in the first place.
In so many of the works I am reading by Black people in the 18th and 19th centuries (not to mention the 20th) have variations of “We have to tell our own stories. We must work to counter the stereotypes, the slanders, the slurs in popular culture and in the media. We have to take control of our own narratives.”
They were right of course. And they tried and continued trying. As we, today, continue to do the same – with, sadly, about the same effect. I suppose there is comfort though, in the knowledge that with each voice raised, with each passing year or decade or century, we move a little closer to our goal.
Thus, my little site here where I plan to do my part, to the best of my ability.
