Before I begin, let me state that, as a black man, I’m a fan
of Black History Month. Big fan. So much so that I have started a grassroots movement
of receiving Black History Month gifts.
(Haven’t gotten me anything yet? Not
to worry. There’s still time. ) My issue is not with the month itself, but
how Black History is taught to children.
What are my concerns? And ruin
the surprise? Read up, Inquiring Minds…
Saturday, February 18th, 2012
Dear Diary:
The day began like any other. I awoke on the couch, eyes bleary, television
blaring, Bible in one hand, a bottle of Mountain Dew in the other, body covered
in fake rose petals left over from my Valentine’s Day re-enactment of “American
Beauty”. Not sure what is more
depressing, my loneliness, the fact I hadn’t cleaned my bed in four days, or
the fact that I played the part Meena Suvari. Let’s be clear, I makes one helluva Meena
Suvari. History is fraught with men
playing women’s roles: Shakespeare,
Madame Butterfly, Margaret Thatcher. (Oh, she started out as a woman, but during
the final few years of her reign, that was a man-postor. Look it up…I’ll wait.)
My day, per usual, was packed with planned activities. I was going to wake up, eat a hearty
breakfast of blueberry Belgian waffles, watch “Ghost Rider: Spirit of Vengeance”, and volunteer at the Virginia
Women’s Expo. The waffles turned into
two bananas and three Golden Oreos, and I passed on “Ghost Rider”. Let’s be honest, the last “Gotta see it
before it airs on FX” Nicholas Cage movie was “The Rock”, and that was more
about Connery. I did, however, make it
to the Virginia Women’s Expo. (I’m a
giver by nature, and I make it a point not to disappoint the ladies…)
As I walked through the maze that is the Greater Richmond
Convention Center in search of the Expo, I began to wonder what I had gotten
myself into. Somehow, though my
intentions were pure (pure-ish), I always found a way to get into trouble at
these types of events. I walked into the
Expo greeted by the sight of women as far as the eye could see, and since I was
wearing my glasses with the binocular lenses (patent-pending), that was pretty
darn far. Not one to be distracted from
my appointed duty, I walked down the first aisle in search of the Komen booth. Fortunately, the booth was halfway down the
aisle. I managed to make it without
getting into any trouble. Dressed in my
customary pink polo-style shirt, jeans, and Nike cross-trainers (still looking
for a sponsor, makers of the Swoosh…have a lot of your products), I had the
look that screamed, “Hey, ladies, come talk to me about your breasts…health…concerns”. After getting my bearings and establishing my
post, I took the opportunity to scan my surroundings. The Komen / Pink Tie Gala booth was diagonally
across from a booth selling lingerie and two booths down from a booth for the
Women’s Self-Defense Network. This
formed a triangle of sorts of three of my favorite things: lingerie, women who
kick ass, and Galas (i.e. breasts…health…concerns). Three things brought together effortlessly in
Zoe Saldana’s “Colombiana”. How did the
3 ½ hours play out? Long story short,
don’t try to get the number of a woman surrounded by ex-Marines.
At this time, there are probably those of you who are
saying, “Damion, this is a nice story and all, but how does this relate to
Black History Month straining race relations?”
To you, I say, hold your proverbial horses (or real horses if you’re
lucky enough to own a ranch, or unlucky enough to be Amish), it’s coming.
Two and a half hours into my giving, we decided to call it a
day. Foot traffic had ground to a slow
trickle, and the streets were about to run red with circus traffic. Well, probably not red, but I don’t know the
primary color palate of circus-goers.
Since things wound down early, I decided to head down to NC to hang out
with my friend Alexis. Alexis and I had
a special friendship. The kind where she
would kick me in the chest to indicate that she wanted her feet rubbed, and I
would explain to her that I celebrated Black History Month by having white
women (a group of which she was a member) feed me. Did she get her feet rubbed? Yes. Did
I get fed? If by “fed”, you mean having
a piece of toast smashed into my face, then the answer is “Yes”. Who better to have a deep conversation about
the state of race-relations in our nation’s schools?
“You look nice,” I said awaiting the return compliment.
“Thank you,” she said.
“And???” I said to myself hoping the hours I’d spent
carefully crafting my look hadn’t been for naught.
“I like your sweater,” she said.
“Really? This old
thing? It was clean…You know, a friend
at work gave me a Black History Month gift…Just sayin’.”
“What?”
“I said ‘A friend at work got me a Black History Month gift’.”
“I know what you said; I was asking what she got you.”
“A DVD of ‘The Color Purple’.”
“Is that a tear-jerker?”
“I think so. I’ve
never actually seen it.” Yes, Black
People, I have not seen “The Color Purple”.
Not much of an Oprah fan, and I haven’t been big on Danny Glover since “Iron
Eagle 2”. What’s that? That was Louis Gossett, Jr? Well, I still blame Danny Glover for “starring”
in “Predator 2”. You could’ve said “No”,
Danny…You could’ve said no…
“A lot of black movies are tear-jerkers,” Alexis stated as
she went on to explain her childhood trauma.
“We had to watch ‘Amistad’ at school when I was a kid.”
“You see there,” I started as I entered intellectual-rant
mode, “I’ve always thought that the worst thing you can do for race-relations
is to make school children watch movies like ‘Roots’ or ‘Amistad’
together. The black kids end up mad, the
white kids feel guilty, and black kids want to beat up the white kids. Kids don’t know what to do with all of those
emotions. Just a bunch of anger and
guilt.”
“Did it make you mad?”
“Heck yeah. (I don’t use foul language around the ladies.) First, I was sad, because I saw how black
people were being treated. Then, I was
mad. How about you?”
“As a white girl, I always felt bad, and it wasn’t my
fault. I didn’t cause it. I understand it was a part of our nation’s
history, and you don’t want to ignore it, but there’s gotta be a better way.”
“Exactly! We went to
a plantation to look at slave quarters.”
“As a field trip???
That’s just messed up.”
“Like you said, it’s a part of our nation’s history. I understand what they are trying to do, but…kids? You walk around looking at slave quarters
thinking, ‘Human beings were made to live like this? This is f’d up! Dang that!’
It’s why I don’t like boats…or yard work. Then, you get back on the bus, and the white
kids are like, ‘We’re still good, right?
Gonna get on the blacktop tomorrow?
Play a little Duck-Duck-Goose? Spirited
game of Red-rover? Perhaps, a little
Hide and go Seek? Red light, Green light?
Hmmm?
We all love Red light, Green light.' Just a lot of unnecessary stress.”
“Same with when they taught us about the Holocaust.
I just felt so sad.”
“Yeah, and when we studied Native Americans, there was the
Trail of Tears, blankets covered in smallpox, buying the Isle of Manhattan for
glass beads. By the end of the year, you
pretty much succeeded in making every minority group mad at white people. That’s why, to this day, I go after their
women.”
“’That’s why I go after their women’…you’re so stupid,” she
said while leaning back and ‘tapping’ me on the chest with her foot.
“Are you serious? Did
we NOT just go through this whole race-relations thing? You know, it’s still my month.”
“I know. I know. It’s your month. Would you like some more toast?”
“Funny. You’re lucky
we’re friends. During Women’s History
Month, I gets MY feets rubbed.”
“Mmmhmmm…Less talk-y more rub-y.”
I drove back to Richmond that night so as to beat the
incoming snow “storm”. I pulled “Shakira”
into the garage, headed upstairs, and fell out on the bed smelling of feet. “What the--rose petals??? I really need to clean this bed…tomorrow…after
the Duke game.”
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