Black

It is Black History Month and I want to give thanks, appreciation and great love to my dark skinned brothers and sisters of this planet. I have many times heard the phrase “My Brother,” and “My Sister” depart the lips of African descended people and I never thought much of it. At a church service this past Sunday, the minister, a gorgeous, powerhouse of a black man named Massia reflected on the 45th anniversary of the assassination of Malcolm X. He spoke to us, the congregation as his “brothers and sisters” and for the first time it entered my ear at a different angle. For the first time I felt in included in the phrase and realized that we are all, literally brothers and sisters of this beautiful human family. This filled my heart with such warmth and connection. It magnetized me to every person in that room before punching out the windows and seeping through cracks to ooze across the country and then float on a breeze around the world, embracing us all as one.

My brothers and my sisters. According to the internet, at 11:12pm PST on February 22nd, 2010 I have 6,803,231,490.

Massia talked about the path of Malcom X and Dr. Martin Luther King and what set them aside from the rest of humanity. What compelled them to leave with their martyred lives an indelible marks on the history of the world.  Centuries of oppression and cruelty inflicted upon my black brothers and sisters have come to this moment in time, where it all seems to be transmuting into an entirely new element. Through an alchemical process, a legacy of pain is being transformed into pure gold. The beautiful smile of a baby girl, her hair in braids and her brown skin as flawless as her soul beams at me and I see her life as the future of humanity. She is perfect, and she sits beside me in such peace and such possibility. The jewel of her ancestors. The treasure of life. They gaze down upon her with smiles of pride and great affection. Look how far our little angel has come! She stands on the shoulders of so many. She toddles the dusty path of slaves. She smiles and the guns of gangs melt to cool water. She is God, smiling at me through the eyes and baby teeth of a little girl with black skin and ebony eyes. I love her, and I wish for her a life of unbridled freedom.

I have few regrets in life, but one lingers. My freshman year of high school I had no friends. I was transfered to a new school and left behind all of my closest friends, who at that age were my entire world. Homecoming loomed on the horizon and no one had asked me to be their date. Then I met Thomas. The nicest, brightest, most well-mannered and polite young man I had ever met, who also happened to be black. He asked me to be his date to the dance and my heart swooned. Someone was actually asking me to the dance! ME! I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt, but my heart broke because I knew my family would never consent. I came from a very conservative family and if the grand matriarch, my great-grandmother ever caught wind of such a situation I would never hear the end of it. Growing up, racist comments were normal. It was the lens through which we communicated about the different people of the world. It never sat right with me, but for the most part I ignored it out of respect for my grandparents,  who I loved completely. They were my family and I loved them with all of my heart. I don’t fault or judge them for the way that they were. They were the product of their environment, the culture at that time in history. They simply were the way they were. I LOVE my grandparents and always, always will, but in that moment when Thomas asked me to be his date to the homecoming dance, I felt such a sense of defeat. I said no, out of respect for my family and it has hurt my heart ever since. If I could rewind the clock and go back to that moment I would have accepted his invitation and I would have gone to my freshman homecoming dance and had an amazing and dreamy evening. I would have enjoyed another human being for the content of his character and not declined his friendship based on the color of his skin. If I could find that young man Thomas, I would tell him how sorry I am for not having had the courage to stand for what I knew was right. For not having had the courage to follow my heart. Racism won that day, and the impact on my life has been mighty.

But we get second chances, and third chances and infinite chances until we learn and grow enough to live in love. So from the regret I have harbored for so many years about that day in high school when sweet Thomas asked me to be his date, all has not been wasted. I learned. For the years of oppression that black people have endured from the shores of Africa to the shores of Haiti, all has not been wasted. The sacrifices made over the centuries by my black skinned brothers and sisters have not been wasted. The lives of Dr. Martin Luther King and Malcolm X were not wasted. We continue to learn and grow enough to live in love.

The beautiful smile of a baby girl, her hair in braids and her brown skin as flawless as her soul beams at me and I see her life as the future of humanity. She is perfect, and she sits beside me in such peace and possibility. The jewel of her ancestors. The treasure of life. They gaze down upon her with smiles of pride and great affection. Look how far our little angel has come! She stands on the shoulders of so many. She toddles the dusty path of slaves. She smiles and the guns of gangs melt to cool water. She is God, smiling at me through the eyes and baby teeth of a little girl with black skin and ebony eyes. I love her, and I wish for her a life of unbridled freedom.

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