"For I am my mother's daughter, and the drums of Africa still beat in my heart." -Mary McLeod Bethune
Today's entry will be a little different, as it will highlight love of a different kind. Most of the time when love is discussed, it is done so in terms of two people in any kind of relationship. The love on my mind today is a bit broader in scope. Being that today is the first day of Black History Month, my thought was to dedicate today's entry to love for one's culture as an extension of love of self. I have been what is termed "black" all my life, and while the only thing black about me is my hair in terms of physical color, its many associations bring to mind different images and ideas. There are stereotypes, portrayals, expectations, and beliefs as it pertains to being black, especially in America. I prefer the term black, because, despite my African ancestry, I cannot in good conscience call myself African American. I've never been to Africa, and I really know nothing about Africa or my connection to it beyond what books tell me. Besides, some of my closest friends are African American (i.e. have been to Africa, can trace their family back there, or were even born there), and I cannot claim that label. Yet, as the quotation as the beginning says, I understand and can at times feel the resonance of my African ancestry in my life.
I absolutely love being black. I love my natural hair (even when it's less than manageable). I love my shape and curves (even though a really well-fitting pair of jeans is still something I've yet to find). I love my natural rhythm (whether expressed in the club, the church, or my bedroom). I love full lips and beautiful brown skin. I love rejoicing when Barack got into office. I love the music and art that speaks to the beauty and poetry of those that I call my people. I love the culture things that inform family gatherings and communal functions. I love that in the midst of a majority culture, I can find a minority community in which there are shared struggles, joys, experiences, and background.
I'm not negating the beauty of the collective human experience which crosses all colors, genders, preferences, economic lines, religions, and everything else we use to divide ourselves. What I am saying is that part of who I am and how I identify myself deals with the fact that my skin has a certain amount of melanin and that my hair has a certain amount of curl. As I said earlier on facebook, I hated history in school, because it seemed to just be about a bunch of dead people and stuff that happened long ago. Now, I've come to appreciate that which history can teach us if we are willing to listen and learn. Even if I were color blind, the society and world I live in are not. In some ways, that's not a bad thing - diversity is a beautiful thing, and just as there are multiple types of flowers and birds, there are multiple types of people. The problem is when is value is assessed based on the differences. Race, religion, gender, orientation, class, etc - none of that makes anyone superior or inferior. It's just a difference like the Robin being different from the Blue Jay.
Either way, I love being black. I appreciate how it makes me different and what it means to me apart from what it means for others to be whatever race or ethnicity they may be. I will forever embrace my blackness and stand tall with my head and my fist up. Though there have been moments when dealing with racism and stereotypes that I thought it'd be easier just to be white, I wouldn't change who I am for the world. Self-acceptance is key, and that includes your race and ethnicity.
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