|Eye on the prize|
Until my two-year-old son is old enough to self-identify racially, I’ve declared him black. I’m raising him African American. Socially and legally. This, despite him being half white. Why? It’s in his best interest. But it’s not without serious, sometimes deadly challenges.
Being black in America has a bad rap. This, according to media, history books, government policy and even statistics. We’re the collective punching bag of mainstream society.
It’s open season on black youth. It’s okay to shoot first and ask questions later. We’re guilty until proven innocent. We’re viewed as a physical threat if we raise our voices in anger. Or throw up our hands to surrender. There’s more.
We’re subjected to suffocating inequities, racism and discrimination, then told by its very architects, “It’s not really that bad” or “It’s just your imagination.” The result: many of us internalize our ongoing subjugation. We enact verbal and physical expressions of self-loathing, borne through generations of being assaulted repeatedly by unbridled oppression.
Then we’re blamed and shamed for not keeping up with the rest of society.
Being a person of color in the United States – especially black – comes with many unearned and undeserved socioeconomic penalties. We all know the numbers. Or maybe we don’t.
With respect to health and wellness indicators, high blood pressure, diabetes and heart disease are all statistically off the chart for African Americans, compared to whites. In primary education, scores trend lower than other races. And when it comes to jobs, guess who’s rates of unemployment eternally tops the charts? Black folks.
|Everyone has skin in the game|
Anybody remember, “A Boy Named Sue”? The poem was written by Shel Silverstein and made popular by the hit Johnny Cash song in 1969. It tells the tale of a boy whose father named him “Sue” so that the youth would grow up tough. And like a boy named Sue, being black can instill grit in a place where “white is right”.
There’s another, more important reason I declare my son African American. Pride. I’m proud to claim a racial identity that has survived the brutalities of yesterday’s slavery, Jim Crow and challenging today’s racist systems that include mass incarceration. Proud to associate him (and myself) with a culture that has withstood generations of physical and psychological violence, appropriation and other abuse perpetrated upon it, yet endure. Indomitably resilient and defiant. Bloodied but unbowed.
Black actor Taye Diggs not too long ago proclaimed his half-white son to be “mixed race.” This, after penning a children’s book, “Mixed Me." Good for him. According to reports, Diggs hopes his book will help his son and other mixed race children realize they don’t have to choose black or white but embrace both races equally.
That aspiration is reasonable. It’s vital to claim one’s entire identity (race, gender, orientation, abilities, etc.) in order to live in whole and complete ways, for reasons of mental as well as spiritual health. (I’m currently on my own personal journey to more fully embrace my African, Native American and Irish identities.)
|All strapped in for the ride of his life|
Amid such enduring color bias, his mother and I are arming our brown-skinned son with a robust sense of racial and cultural self. An emphatic image to start; one rooted in reality but also acknowledges prevailing adverse illusions that present barriers for people of color. A sturdy platform on which to germinate and then evolve identity.
When he’s older I will support, nurture and promote whatever way he chooses to identify. Until then I will say it loud: he’s black and I’m proud.
Follow J.R. on Twitter @4humansbeing or contact him at firstname.lastname@example.org.