Posted by
The Black Sphere on Friday, July 03, 2009 7:30:52 PM
I wrote this awhile back and decided that for the 4th of July I should post it here. It is written much like parts of my new book The BIG Black Lie, so I hope you enjoy it.
I received an email from a black man who was attempting to convince
me that, though I am completely black, I have no experience growing up
black in America. The bulk of his theory on my ‘blackness' was based on
the fact that I constantly lampoon Obama in my blog. He counseled me to
embrace Obama, as Obama could help me to "rediscover the black
experience." He warned that "whites would never see me, as I see me."
Touting Obama as the poster child for blackness is a ridiculous
notion. Further, the idea that Obama can teach me "blackness" is
equally ridiculous. Unlike me, Obama is only half-black -- as much
white, as he is black. Obama's formative years were spent mostly in the
white world. He was raised by his white grandparents in upper
middle-class lifestyle. He attended expensive mostly white private
schools in his youth, his education culminating with Harvard.
Like Obama, I am a product of a father who abandoned me. My story
departs with Obama in that my father spent most of his adult life
incarcerated, bouncing in and out of my life mainly by phone. When my
father wasn't incarcerated, he was strung out -- chemically dependent
-- his drugs of choice being alcohol (a vice he inherited from his
father, making me a carrier as well) and crack cocaine (an acquired
addiction). Surely a father like this qualifies me for the black
condition?
My father's abandonment of his family necessitated my mother's move
back with her parents -- another all too unfortunate circumstance of
the black condition. Shortly after my mother returned to live with my
maternal grandparents, she would die at the age of 24 from what was
supposed to be a "day surgery."
In yet another parallel to Obama, my grandparents stepped in to
raise me after my mother's death, the difference being that my
grandparents were poor. My grandfather worked as a chauffeur and
gardener for a wealth family in San Antonio, my grandmother was their
cook and maid. Their official designation was "caretakers." We were
relocated to this family's 25,000 acre ranch in central Texas to take
care of their home there. Caretakers don't make a lot of money, and my
grandparents annually salaries were less than $15,000 -- combined.
Though I grew up in the country, prior to college I attended school
in the town of Brady. Brady is a typical central Texas town. Population
when I lived there was 5,557. Today it is just over 6,000 -- not a lot
of growth over 30 years.
Highway 87 split the city west to east. Blacks lived on the south
side, whites on the north for the most part. I shouldn't have to tell
you which side was considered the rich side of town. Hispanics chose
sides, based on where they fell on the economic continuum. That highway
dividing line was both a racial and economic divide. A line of
demarcation, as it were. There were some whites south of Highway 87,
but few blacks north. I would learn in my experience in Brady that
people were much more interested in economics, then ethnicity --
despite the racist reputations of these small southern towns. I
straddled that line constantly, having friends on both sides of the
divide.
The wealthy family for whom my grandparents worked was rarely there,
coming only for hunting parties, and short vacations. They never even
visited the town. They came to experience their property as a private
luxury retreat. My grandparents did all their shopping for them, hired
maintenance people, and so on. Bills were sent to Barfield --their
accountant, and bills were paid...on time and in full. To all the
merchants in Brady, my family was rich, because we were real. The
wealthy family was a ghost.
That was as close of an experience I got to being wealthy in
childhood. People in Brady didn't see me or my family as black, but as
a solid family, a pillar of the community. Black was a non sequitur. You could say that we were treated white in Brady, but I say we were treated economically.
Unbeknownst to my grandparents, they made sure that my brother and I
got our proper exposure to the poor black experience on our weekend
visits to San Antonio. We would leave early Friday, after my
grandfather had set up his domino game (for money). We would stay with
one of our relatives, usually Uncle Joe and Aunt "Pie". They were
"James and Florida Evans of Good Times" poor. Aunt Pie was my
grandmother's younger sister, and she and Uncle Joe always opened their
home to us.
Upon arrival to their home my brother, cousins and I would be dispatched to get Church's chicken as payback for the hospitality.
My grandfather would leave shortly thereafter, on his "hustle," and
the rest of the family would play some "bid" -- "bid" is the black
version of bridge. When we weren't playing bid, we played Spades or
"Bones." Mostly we sat around talking. We talked about everything,
including politics, religion, education, celebrity gossip, and so on.
The weekend would end, and it was back to the ranch.
While my family was living what I deem the black experience, the
person for whom I supposedly should be showing deference was living in
Indonesia, then Hawaii -- attending private schools. Because of the
kindness of my grandparents' employer, like Obama I was provided the
opportunity to attend private high school. I would earn essentially a
full-ride to Southern Methodist University, and also received a
National Merit Scholarship, the Minnie Stevens Piper Scholarship, and a
co-op scholarship from SMU.
No silver spoon kid here. The house I grew up in still belongs to
that wealthy white family, inasmuch as most blacks' homes belong to the
banks. No big payday when my grandfather died, and I provide a little
extra to my grandmother who is still alive at age 88.
Here's the wrap:
I was not in the will when my grandparents' employers died a few
years back. No Mr. Deeds story here. No Hollywood ending of sorts, at
least not one provided by my wealthy benefactors. But they did leave me
wealthy -- wealthier than I ever imagined. They showed me the real
world that would have only appeared in evening soap operas, like
Dynasty and Dallas. I saw daily a life that was dramatically different
from mine; yet always in plain sight. A life of "look, don't touch."
Seeing wealth and wealth creation with my own eyes, made me look at
life differently than most. I loved knowing both lives -- the lives of
rich and poor, not black and white.
What I learned is there is no black experience. There are only the
limits to your experiences that you allow in your minds. Obama does not
define me as a black man. I did not feel any more proud of Obama
becoming president, than I felt for Bush. Sadly, I was less proud.
Finally, I don't need validation from whites on how to see myself.
Frankly I don't care what whites (or anybody) thinks about me as a
black man. I know how I see me. I like what I see-flaws and all.
So, I stand before you America -- A proud American...who happens to be black!
That's my rant!
Happy 4th of July! God bless America!
(c) 2009 Kevin Jackson - The Black Sphere All Rights Reserved