http://www.philly.com/philly/news/local/83619637.html
By Annette John-Hall
Feb. 5, 2010
Happy Black History Month!
Notice I said "black."
Is it just me? African American is so cumbersome. February will be
over by the time I finish saying, "Happy African American History Month."
So just call me black.
See, I, for one, am glad I came of age during the height of the
black-power movement, when black folks were demanding not only a
voice but also an identity of their choosing.
Like James Brown, we proclaimed our blackness loudly and proudly.
We partied with a purpose to race-conscious anthems. We read
self-affirming poetry and books. We dressed the part. Heck, even our
hair was political.
I haven't left it all behind. I recently chose Tamara Dobson, the
fearless uber-Afro'ed Amazonian special agent from Cleopatra Jones,
as my celebrity look-alike profile photo on Facebook.
You get the picture.
But just as I became comfortably settled into my sepia self, along
came Jesse Jackson declaring that from here on out, we would be known
as African American.
Say what? (Note to Sen. Harry Reid: That's not Negro dialect.)
We are more than a color, Jackson said. We are a people with a history.
Which is a good thing, but I already knew that.
After all, why did we march to demand Swahili as an elective, and to
add Countee Cullen, James Baldwin, and Toni Morrison to our reading
lists of American classics? I mean, what were we wearing kente and
dashikis for?
None of it made sense to my mother, who wasn't having any of it.
No African American. No black. She was Negro, she said - and proud of it.
"Y'all can grow your hair out like that if you want to, but I am not
from Africa, so don't be calling me black," she insisted.
Negro, please.
While we raised fists at any demonstration that would have us, my
mother found her affirmation by reading Ebony. But don't call her black.
I haven't asked her, but I wouldn't be surprised if she was one of
the more than 50,000 Americans who wrote "Negro" on the last census.
And then there's my grandmother - may she rest in peace. She wasn't
having any of any of it.
She was proud, too - proudly "colored," she declared.
She came from a generation that had heard much worse, when you didn't
get a say in what you wanted to be called. To her, colored was a
dignified designation.
Not to me. As a kid, I remember hearing "colored" and having an
inexplicable urge for a crayon.
Colorism exists
Truth is, African Americans, Blacks, Negroes, Coloreds, or whatever
our preference, have grappled over the politics of colorism and
identification since slavery - when masters designated dark-skinned
slaves to the field and light-skinned to the house.
It's been well-documented that darker-skinned blacks today are more
likely to be arrested, less likely to be educated, and, yes, less
likely to hold public office.
Hardly talked about are the love-hate relationships we have with
ourselves. From skin-lightening cream to the ubiquitous straightening
comb, we've struggled to accept ourselves in all of our shades.
It wasn't so long ago that some black sororities conducted "brown
paper bag" tests on prospective members. Meaning that only pledges
with skin the color of a paper lunch bag or lighter could be
considered for membership.
And just a few years ago, when a group of black children was given
the "doll test" - an experiment first conducted in the 1930s to
examine children's attitudes about race - black girls still chose
white dolls over dolls that looked like them when asked which ones
represented beauty or goodness.
The results broke this black woman's heart.
Free to be
Yet hope stays alive through my own children and all of their
multihued friends. Growing up in the age of Obama, they're proud of
their race, but have refused to be defined by it.
For them, Black History Month is more innate than calculated. They
don't have to worry about how their achievements will never get
acknowledged in the history books.
What we fought for is something they already have.
Still, our evolution is all part of the continuum of black, well,
American history. And even as we joke about our annual extravaganza's
being celebrated in the shortest month, it does let us recognize our
contributions, visibly and proudly.
No matter what we call ourselves.
--
Contact columnist Annette John-Hall at 215-854-4986 or Ajohnhall@phillynews.com.
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