BLACK, PERSON OF COLOR, OR TIME TO REBRAND?

Historically, a person was considered to be Black if they had one drop of Black blood. The one-drop rule was used during slavery in America to assign the children of mixed ethnic groups to the status of enslaved people and to promote the ideology of White supremacy. This also created a caste system based on the color of one's skin. You were legally White if you were a Free Person of Color before the Civil War and had less than one-eighth of Black blood. Many Free People of Color cloaked themselves in the safety of whiteness during that period in America’s history.

Fast forward to the twenty-first century, and we have a Woman of Color, running to be the President of the United States of America. If anyone questions her Blackness, they are immediately looked upon as someone who swallowed the Kool-Aid that the orange man gave them. Little did Trump know when he asked, “When did Kamala become Black?” that he would spark a thoughtful response. I asked myself, “If her mother is Indian from India, and her father is from Jamaica, where were her Black Aunties and Big Mommas?” What I was really saying with that question was Kamala Harris’s experience in America was not the experience of African Americans whose ancestors were enslaved on southern plantations for hundreds of years. Her experience was that of a second-generation immigrant. Her parents came to America willingly to seek a better life. My parents and their parents and their parents…knew that the American Dream and the inscriptions on the Statue of Liberty, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” was not referring to them.

I will cast my vote for Kamala Harris because she is far better than the orange alternative, but I won’t hold my breath waiting for her to right America's wrongs. I will, however, hope that she remembers the warm embraces of those Black Aunties and Big Mommas who took care of her until her mother could pick her up from daycare at the end of the day.

I am more than a Person of Color, and the Black woman descriptor is too general. Apparently, it is advantageous in certain circumstances for some to call themselves a Black person in America when, in fact, they are people of color with a distinct cultural and ethnic heritage that is vastly different from descendants of the enslaved. Instead of passing for White, some people are now passing for Black. That is until being Black becomes a little too real, pedestrian, or no longer serves a purpose.

So, Black people whose roots run deep in the blood-soaked soil of former plantations, what should we call ourselves now? What we call ourselves should separate us from color and identify us as descendants of the people who built this country and its incredible wealth. Our history, unique struggle, and redress in this country can’t be consumed in the pan-ethnic moniker “People of Color, of Black.”

HARLEM IS A VIBE

Harlem is where I found My People. After three trips to New York, I finally went to Harlem. Walking up and down 125th Street and Lennox, strolling down neighborhoods lined with brownstones, I could see myself living there.

New York’s contrast between the ultra-rich and the working class is so stark that it is disconcerting. I stayed at the Hard Rock Hotel in Manhattan's theatre district, within walking distance of Times Square, Rockefeller Center, and 5th Avenue. One afternoon, I had lunch at a small café near Central Park where an older female New Yorker sat alone having lunch. I couldn’t help but notice the huge solitaire diamond ring that extended to her knuckle. Her large Louis Vuitton monogram multicolor bag lying casually in the chair across from her. She interrupted our conversation when she heard us planning to get an Uber back to the hotel. She laughingly told us it was close enough to walk, but we could take the subway if we didn’t want to walk. The woman gave us directions to the subway and told us which trains we could take. After that excursion, we traveled by subway often, getting directions from the hotel concierge, taking careful note of whether we were going uptown or downtown and the letters and numbers of the trains. We only took an Uber a few times because two women in the group had knee injuries. 

Of all the places I visited, the New York Public Library with the stone lions in front was the most impressive. The massive collection of knowledge and works of literature stored in such an imposing structure was quite frankly overwhelming. Stone pillars, marble floors, masterful artworks, and chandelier-lined hallways. Opulent private rooms for scholars and public rooms for laypersons to study. Coming to such a place whenever I wanted would be a privilege. The view of New York on 5th Avenue juxtaposed with the street vendor of 125th Street in Harlem shocks the senses, but Harlem felt real. The history of the Harlem Renaissance was etched into the brownstones I passed, and whispers of Louis Armstrong’s horn floated down the street. I could envision Langton Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston looking down at these same streets and writing about our struggles today. The hustle and flow of Harlem mixed with the unity that we are in the struggle together was the feeling I walked away with when I left Harlem.

I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I know it won’t be the same Harlem I saw on this trip because there were glaring indications that it would not be the Black Mecca it is now. The vibe that Harlem was and is will soon be watered down into something less soulful. As I took the train uptown back to the hotel, I couldn’t help but pray that this place called Harlem, with its cultural and historical significance, would not be lost to gentrification.

“A people without the knowledge of their past history, origin, and culture is like a tree without roots.” ----Marcus Mosiah Garvey  

LOOKING FORWARD

“Looking Forward” is the theme of this year's Women’s Conference for my church in Altadena. I thought about that for a moment and realized how appropriate it is for women of a certain age, such as myself. When I was young, pretty much all I did was look forward to the day I could do what I wanted without asking anyone for permission. Now that I’m older and have experienced so much loss, sometimes it’s hard to look forward.

Living in the past can be a comfortable place full of beautiful memories. There are people and places I will never forget (nor would I want to), but they are no longer a part of my present or future. Moving on from the past doesn’t mean forgetting. It means that I’m living in the here and now.

Looking forward, I know that my world will change, and with change comes uncertainty.

After working for over forty years at the Los Angeles Superior Court, I was a bit apprehensive about who I would be, what I would do, and whether there would be enough money to live like I had been living before retirement.  I retired in March 2020, just as Covid-19 became a global pandemic. You might think I had no choice but to move forward, but that wouldn’t be true. The isolation of beginning retirement and quarantining because of the virus was very depressing. From 2016 to now, there have been so many deaths in my family and of people that I have known and loved. Some days, it was so hard to get up and look forward without fear and trepidation about what the future would bring. But I do. I look forward to each new day, knowing it is beyond my control. I start my day thanking God for a new beginning, another chance to be better than I was the day before. And at night, I ask him to forgive me for my trespasses.

Life is beautiful, but it isn’t without pain and suffering. There are things beyond our control, yet we do have a say in how we move in this world. We can be gracious, kind, and loving despite the things that could have made us bitter, depressed, lonely, or angry….

I have a choice. I can either give up and believe that my best days are in the past or believe that better ones are coming. I’ve had a good life, yet I know I haven’t seen the best that God has promised me.

Since retirement, I’ve self-published two books, the third of which will be published soon. I’m excited about my second act as an author because I know I can remain hopeful as long as I have something to look forward to. I can wake up excited, hopeful, and expecting something extraordinary as I look forward to each new season of my life!

Never let yesterday use up too much of today – Will Rogers