The United Nations is sleeping on our living room floor
Black Lives Matter. I can hear the collective gasp from my sons and husband with whom I have argued over years about referring to themselves as black and relegating our culture to a color. My first born, Kairo, was especially vociferous, “But where are we from Mom, who are we?” “Africa,” I would respond. To which he would sarcastically say, “You know that Africa is a continent, right? Which country in Africa?” The truth is that I did not know, but I wanted it to be Ghana, as when I compare my Uncles’ features to those of former Ghanaian President John Kufuor, or former United Nations Secretary-General Kofi Annan or the artist El Anatsui, I am almost sure of it. I have often promised during these “heated debates” to have the family DNA test completed so that we could settle this question once and for all. It is still a box left to be ticked.
In search of our legacy, my Aunt’s son is attached to Kenya where he has traveled several times with his daughter and brother. He called me on his first visit to report, “I showed them a map of where Antigua is located, and they asked, how did we get there? They don't know our story.” That made me so sad, I shed a tear for our people and particularly for my cousin, who especially loves the culture of the Masai.
To my friends who’ve asked me, “Why not all lives matter,” to which I’ve strongly retorted, “Then society should act like it. Yes, all lives will matter when the cold bodies of murdered African American men and women cease to pile up!” And for added measure, just think that there were, and still are, men running around in white sheets aiming to harm, and have previously murdered, “Black” people, for no other reason than their skin color. Sheer madness.
To my children to whom I have often apologized for birthing them into this madness, I am encouraged by their commendable respect for different cultures and deep appreciation of humanity, and for their will to advocate for others in both work and extracurricular activities (Kairo); and for how they live their lives in celebration of humanity's better angels (Chad). I remember when they were teenagers and brought friends home, my husband would wake me in the middle of the night after a video game marathon to tell me, “The United Nations is sleeping on our living room floor.” “OK…” I would say. “How am I going to feed everyone?” He would unfailingly volunteer. I knew banana or apple cinnamon pancakes were on the way.
I have come to realize that my formative years were completed in a bubble. Growing up I did not experience the intense racism so prevalent in American life or racist experiences that my American friends often recount. As a matter of fact, there were no other cultures in the villages in which I grew up in Antigua. There were transplants from other Caribbean islands, but I did not differentiate among them. I did see European tourists on visits to the beach, mostly on Sundays, but the encounters were inconsequential, at least for me. I do remember wondering as a child about blue-eyed tourists, and inquired of my Brother, “how exactly did the blue ocean manage to get into their eyes.” I was teased incessantly about this innocent remark.
It is not lost on me the benefits of being raised in the bubble of island culture in the Caribbean, where the elderly hovered, held on, hugged, cajoled and controlled you tightly. Mostly too tightly. Today, I yearn for that Caribbean cocoon, especially for my American-born children who only infrequently experienced such unbridled freedom over summer holidays. During my coming of age on the Island, I am sure racism was present. Maybe as young people, we were sheltered from it. Of course it helped that our elected officials, police officers and teachers lived among us and shared the same culture. I feel they had a vested interest in “how we turned out.”
Today, the depth of negative experiences fueled by immense ignorance that people of African descent continue to encounter daily is unfathomable. I question naively, why? Can it really be because we can no longer be forced to provide free labor to enrich other cultures? Our freedom to live out a peaceful existence on earth is a natural birthright. For the rest of my life I will struggle with who gets to decide certain humans’ fate and why.
In writing this post, I can’t help but celebrate the better angels of this country, like the dignified Congressman John Lewis who recently passed away, whom although beaten until his skull was cracked open, compounded with his more than 40 arrests and countless demonstrations alongside MLK to advance civil and equal rights, continued to live a life of moral fortitude while bringing attention to the social plight of all people, all while dancing to Pharrell Williams‘ “Happy,” which he called “my song.” “Nothing can bring me down” he later quipped while dancing. I couldn’t agree more Sir! Although, I do think he could have used some help with his dance moves.
To all the budding male and female John Lewises out there, be encouraged, and thank you. Kairo and Chad that includes you!
Thank you Ellie Meek Tweedy,
Editor